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THE EMPIRE OF SILAS STRONG 









SPECIAL LIMITED EDITION 




Silas Strong 

Emperor of the Woods 


By 


Irving Bacheller 

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Author of “Eben Holden” “Vergilius 
” Darrel of the Blessed Isles” etc. 


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u And a little child shall lead them ” 




GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK 

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Copyright, 1906, by Irving Bachbllkr. 

All rights reserved. 

Published March, 1906. 





To my friend the late 

Archer Brown 

in memory of summer days when we 
wandered far and sat down to rest by 
springs and brooks in the doomed empire of 
Strong and talked of saving it and of better 
times and knew not they were impossible. 













. 






































































1 




































Foreword 


Some of the people of these pages , when the 
author endeavored to regulate their conduct ac- 
cording to well-known rules of literary construc- 
tion , declared themselves free and independent. 
When, urged by him, they tried to speak and act 
in the fashion of most novels , they laughed, and 
seemed to be ashamed of themselves, and with good 
reason. 

They are slow, stubborn, modest, shy, and used 
to the open. Not for them are the narrow stage, 
the swift action, the fine-wrought chain of art fid 
incident that characterize a modern romance. 

Of late authors have succeeded rather well in 
turning people into animals and animals into 
people. Why not, if one's art can perform 
miracles? This book aims not to emulate or 
amend the work of the Creator. Its people are 
just folks of a very old pattern, its animals rather 
common and of small attainments. It is in no 
sense a literary performance. It pretends to be 


Foreword 


nothing more than a simple account of one sum- 
mer's life, pretty much as it was lived, in a part 
of the Adirondacks. It goes on about as things 
happen there, with a leisurely pace, like that of 
the woods lover on a trail who may be halted by 
nothing more than a flower or a bird-song. One 
day follows another in the old fashion of those 
places where men go for rest and avarice quits 
them with bloody spurs and they forget the calendar 
and measure time on the dial of the heavens. 

The book has one high ambition. It has tried 
to tell the sctd story of the wilderness itself — to 
show, from the woodsman' s view-point, the play of 
great forces which have been tearing down his 
home and turning it into the flesh and bone of 
cities. 

Were it to cause any reader to value what re- 
mains of the forest above its market-price and to 
do his part in checking the greed of the saws, it 
would be worth while. 


Silas Strong 


I 

HE song of the saws began long 
ago at the mouths of the rivers. 
Slowly the axes gnawed their way 
southward, and the ominous, pro- 
phetic chant followed them. Men 
seemed to goad the rivers to increase their 
speed. They caught and held and harnessed 
them as if they had been horses and drove them 
into flumes and leaped them over dams and 
pulled and hauled and baffled them until they 
broke away with the power of madness in their 
rush. But, even then, the current of the rivers 
would not do ; the current of thunderbolts could 
not have whirled the wheels with speed enough. 

Now steam bursts upon the piston-head with 
the power of a hundred horses. The hungry 
steel races through columns of pine as if they 
were soft as butter and its bass note booms 

i 



Silas Strong 

night and day to the heavens. Hear it now. 
The burden of that old song is m-o-r-e, m-o-r-e, 
m-o-r-e ! 

It is doleful music, God knows, but, mind 
you, it voices the need of the growing land. 
It sings of the doom of the woods. It may be 
heard all along the crumbling edge of the wil- 
derness from Maine to Minnesota. Day by day 
hammers beat time while the saws continue 
their epic chorus. 

There are towers and spires and domes and 
high walls where, in our boyhood, there were 
only trees far older than the century, and these 
rivers that flow north go naked in open fields 
for half their journey. Every spring miles of 
timber come plunging over cataracts and rush- 
ing through rapids and crowding into slow water 
on its way to the saws. There a shaft of pine 
which has been a hundred years getting its 
girth is ripped into slices and scattered upon the 
stack in a minute. A new river, the rushing, 
steam-driven river of steel, bears it away to the 
growing cities. Silas Strong once wrote in his old 
memorandum-book these words: “Strong says 
to himself seems so the world was goin’ to be 
peeled an’ hollered out an’ weighed an’ measured 
an’ sold till it’s all et up like an apple.” 


Silas Strong 

On the smooth shore of the river below Ra- 
quette Falls, and within twenty rods of his great 
mill, lived a man of the name of Gordon with two 
motherless children. Pity about him! Married 
a daughter of “Bill” Strong up in the woods— 
an excellent woman — made money and wasted 
it and went far to the bad. Good fellow, drink, 
poker, and so on down the hill! His wife died 
leaving two children — blue -eyed little people 
with curly, flaxen hair — a boy of four a girl of 
nearly three years. The boy’s full name was 
John Socksmith Gordon — reduced in familiar 
parlance to Socky. The girl was baptized Susan 
Bradbury Gordon, but was called Sue. 

Their Uncle Silas Strong came to the funeral 
of their mother. He had travelled more than 
eighty miles in twenty-four hours, his boat now 
above and now beneath him. He brought his 
dog and rifle, and wore a great steel watch-chain 
and a pair of moccasins with fringe on the sides, 
and a wolf-skin jacket. He carried the children 
on his shoulders and tossed them in the air, while 
his great size and odd attire seemed to lay hold 
of their spirits. 

As time passed, a halo of romantic splendor 
gathered about this uncle’s memory. One day 
Socky heard him referred to as the “Emperor of 
3 


Silas Strong 

the Woods.” He was not long finding out that 
an emperor was a very grand person who wore 
gold on his head and shoulders and rode a fine 
horse and was always ready for a fight. So 
their ideal gathered power and richness, one 
might say, the longer he lived in their fancy. 
They loved their father, but as a hero he had 
not been a great success. There was a time 
when both had entertained some hope for him, 
but as they saw how frequently he grew ‘‘tired” 
they gave their devotion more and more to this 
beloved memory. Their uncle’s home was re- 
mote from theirs, and so his power over them 
had never been broken by familiarity. 

Socky and Sue told their young friends all 
they had been able to learn of their Uncle Silas, 
* and, being pressed for more knowledge, had re- 
course to invention. Stories which their father 
had told grew into wonder-tales of the riches, 
the strength, the splendor, and the general de- 
structive power of this great man. Sue, the 
first day she went to Sunday-school, when the 
minister inquired who slew a lion by the strength 
of his hands, confidently answered, “Uncle 
Silas.” 

There was one girl in the village who had an 
Uncle Phil with a fine air of authority and a 
4 


Silas Strong 

wonderful watch and chain; there was yet an- 
other with an Uncle Henry, who enjoyed the dis- 
tinction of having had the small- pox; there was 
a boy, also, who had an Uncle Reuben with a 
wooden leg and a remarkable history, and a wen 
beside his nose with a wart on the same. But 
these were familiar figures, and while each had 
merits of no low degree, their advocates were 
soon put. to shame by the charms of that myste- 
rious and remote Uncle Silas. 

There was a little nook in the lumber-yard 
where children used to meet every Saturday for 
play and free discussion. There, now and then, 
some new-comer entered an uncle in the com- 
petition. There, always, a primitive pride of 
blood asserted itself in the remote descendants, 
shall we say, of many an ancient lord and 
chieftain. One day — Sue was then five and 
Socky six years of age — Lizzie Cornell put a 
cousin on exhibit in this little theatre of child- 
hood. He was a boy with red hair and superior 
invention from out of town. He stood near 
Lizzie — a deep and designing miss — and said 
not a word, until Sue began about her Uncle 
Silas. 

It was a new tale of that remarkable hunter 
which her father had related the night before 
5 


Silas Strong 

while she lay waiting for the sandman. She told 
how her uncle had seen a panther one day when 
he was travelling without a gun. His dog chased 
the panther and soon drove him up a tree. Now, 
it seemed, the only thing in the nature of a 
weapon the hunter had with him was a piece of 
new rope for his canoe. After a moment’s re- 
flection the great man climbed the tree and 
threw- a noose over the panther’s neck while 
his faithful dog was barking below. Then the 
cute Uncle Silas made his rope fast to a limb and 
shook the tree so that when the panther jumped 
for the ground he hung himself. 

To most of those who heard the narrative it 
seemed to be a rather creditable exploit, showing, 
as it did, a shrewdness and ready courage of no 
mean order on the part of Uncle Silas. Murmurs 
of glad approval were hushed, however, by the 
voice of the red-headed boy. 

“Pooh! that’s nothing,” said he, with con- 
tempt. “My Uncle Mose chased a panther once 
an’ overtook him and ketched him by the tail 
an’ fetched his head agin a tree, quick as a 
flash, an’ knocked his brains out.” 

His words ran glibly and showed an off-hand 
mastery of panthers quite unequalled. Here was 
an uncle of marked superiority and promise. 

6 


Silas Strong 

There was a moment of silence in the crowd. 

“If ye don’t believe it,” said the red-headed 
boy, “ I can show ye a vest my mother made out 
o’ the skin.” 

That was conclusive. Sue blushed for shame 
and looked into the face of Socky. Her mouth 
drooped a little and her under lip trembled with 
anxiety. Doubt, thoughtfulness, and confusion 
were on the face of her brother. He scraped the 
sand with his foot. He felt that he had some- 
times stretched the truth a little, but this — this 
went beyond his capacity for invention. 

“Don’t believe it,” he whispered, with half a 
sneer as he glanced down at Sue. 

Lizzie Cornell began to titter. All eyes were 
fixed upon the unhappy pair as if to say, “ How 
about your Uncle Silas now?” The populace, 
deserting the standard of the old king, gathered 
in front of the red-headed boy and began to 
inquire into the merits of Uncle Mose. 

Socky and Sue hesitated. Curiosity struggled 
with resentment. Slowly and thoughtfully they 
walked away. For a moment neither spoke. 
Soon a cheering thought came into the mind of 
Sue. 

“Maybe Uncle Silas has ketched a panther 
by the tail, too,” said she, hopefully. Socky, 
7 


Silas Strong 

his hands in his pockets, looked down with a 
dazed expression. 

“I’m going to ask father,” said he, thought- 
fully. 

It was now late in the afternoon. They went 
home and sat in silence on the veranda, watching 
for their father. The old Frenchwoman who 
kept house for him tried to coax them in, but 
they would make no words with her. Long they 
sat there looking wistfully down the river-bank. 

Presently Sue hauled out of her pocket a tiny 
rag doll which she carried for casual use. It 
came handy in moments of loneliness and de- 
spair outside the house. She toyed with its 
garments, humming in a motherly fashion. It 
was nearly dark when they saw their father 
staggering homeward according to his habit. 
They knew not yet the meaning of that waver- 
ing walk. 

“There he comes 1” said Socky, as they both 
ran to meet him. “ He can’t carry us to-night. 
He’s awful tired.” 

They thought him “tired.” They kissed him 
and took his hands in theirs, and led him into 
the house. Stern and silent he sat down beside 
them at the supper- table. The children were 
also silent and sober-faced from intuitive sym- 
8 


Silas Strong 

pathy. They could not yet introduce the topic 
which weighed upon them. 

Socky looked at his father. For the first time 
he noted that his clothes were shabby ; he knew 
that a few days before his father had lost his 
watch. The boy stole away from the table, and 
went to his little trunk and brought the sacred 
thing which his teacher had given him Christ- 
mas Day — a cheap watch that told time with a 
noisy and inspiring tick. He laid it down by 
his father’s plate. 

“There,” said he, “I’m going to let you wear 
my watch.” 

It was one of those deep thrusts which only 
the hand of innocence can administer. Richard 
Gordon took the watch in his hand and sat a 
moment looking down. The boy manfully re- 
sumed his chair. 

“ It don’t look very well for you to be going 
around without a watch,” he remarked, taking 
up his piece of bread and butter. 

His father put the watch in his pocket. 

“You can let me wear it Sundays,” the boy 
added. “You won’t need it Sundays.” 

A smile overspread the man’s face. 

The children, quick to see their opportunity, 
approached him on either side. Sue put her 
a 9 


Silas Strong 

arms around the neck of her father and kissed 
him. 

“ Tell us a story about Uncle Silas,” she pleaded. 

“Uncle Silas!” he exclaimed. “We’re all go- 
ing to see him in a few days.” 

The children were mute with surprise. Sue’s 
little doll dropped from her hands to the floor. 
Her face changed color and she turned quickly, 
with a loud cry, and drummed on the table so 
that the dishes rattled. Socky leaned over the 
back of a chair and shook his head, and gave his 
feet a fling and then recovered his dignity. 

“Now don’t get excited,” remarked their fa- 
ther. 

They ran out of the room, and stood laughing 
and whispering together for a ’moment. Then 
they rushed back. 

“When are we going?” the boy inquired. 

“ In a day or two,” said Gordon, who still sat 
drinking his tea. 

Sue ran to tell Aunt Marie, the housekeeper, 
and Socky sat in his little rocking-chair for a 
moment of sober thought. 

“Look here, old chap,” said Gordon, who was 
wont to apply the terms of mature good- fellow- 
ship to his little son. Socky came and stood by 
the side of his father. 


IO 


Silas Strong 

“You an’ I have been friends for some time, 
haven’t we?” was the strange and half-maudlin 
query which Gordon put to his son. 

The boy smiled and came nearer. 

“An’ I’ve always treated ye right — ain’t I? 
Answer me.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, folks say you’re neglected an’ that you 
don’t have decent clothes an’ that you might as 
well have no father at all. Now, old boy, I’m 
going to tell you the truth; I’m broke — failed 
in business, an’ have had to give up. Understand 
me; I haven’t a cent in the world.” 

The man smote his empty pocket suggestive- 
ly. The boy was now deeply serious. Not able 
to comprehend the full purport of his father’s 
words, he saw something in the face before him 
which began to hurt. His lower lip trembled a 
little. 

“Don’t worry, old friend,” said Gordon, clap- 
ping him on the shoulder. 

Just then Sue came running back. 

“Say,” said she, climbing on a round of her 
father’s chair, “did Uncle Silas ever ketch a 
panther by the tail?” 

The children held their breaths waiting for the 


answer. 


Silas Strong 

“Ketch a panther by the tail!” their fa- 
ther exclaimed. “Whatever put that in your 
head?” 

Sue answered with some show of excitement. 
Her words came fast. 

“Lizzie Cornell’s cousin he said that his Uncle 
Mose had ketched a panther by the tail an’ 
knocked his brains out.” 

Their father smiled again. 

“That kind o’ floored ye, didn’t it, old girl?” 
said he, with a kiss. “Le’s see,” he continued, 
drawing the children close on either side of him. 
“ I don’ know as he ever ketched a panther by 
the tail, but I’ll tell ye what he did do. One 
day when he hadn’t any gun with him he come 
acrost a big bear, an’ Uncle Sile fetched him a 
cuff with his fist an’ broke the bear’s neck, an’ 
then he brought him home on his back an’ et 
him for dinner.” 

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed, her mouth and eyes 
wide open. 

Socky whistled a shrill note of surprise and 
thankfulness. Then he clucked after the man- 
ner of one starting his horse. 

“My stars!” he exclaimed, and so saying he 
skipped across the floor and brought his fist 
down heavily upon the lounge. Uncle Silas had 


Silas Strong 

been saved — plucked, as it were, from the very 
jaws of obscurity. 

When they were ready to get into bed the chil- 
dren knelt as usual before old Aunt Marie, the 
housekeeper. Sue ventured to add a sentence 
to her prayer. “ God bless Uncle Silas, ” said she, 
“and make him very — very- — ” 

The girl hesitated, trying to find the right 
word. 

“Powerful,” her brother suggested, still in the 
attitude of devotion. 

“ Powerful,” repeated Sue, in a trembling voice, 
and then added: “for Christ’s sake. Amen.” 

They lay a long time discussing what they 
should say and do when at last they were come 
into the presence of the great man. Suddenly a 
notion entered the mind of Socky that, in order 
to keep the favor of fortune, he must rise and 
clap his hand three times upon the round top of 
the posts at the foot of the bed. Accordingly he 
rose and satisfied this truly pagan impulse. 

Then he repeated the story of his uncle and 
the bear over and over again, pausing thought- 
fully at the point of severest action and add- 
ing a little color to heighten the effect. Here 
and there Sue prompted him, and details arose 
which seemed to merit careful consideration. 


13 


Silas Strong 

“I wouldn’t wonder but what Uncle Silas 
must ’a’ spit on his hand before he struck the 
bear,” said Socky, remembering how strong 
men often prepared themselves for a difficult 
undertaking. 

When the story had been amplified, in a gen- 
erous degree, and well committed to memory, 
they began to talk of Lizzie Cornell and her 
cousin, the red-headed boy, and planned how 
they would seek them out next day and defy 
them with the last great achievement of their 
Uncle Silas. 

“He’s a nasty thing,” the girl exclaimed, 
suddenly. 

“ I feel kind o’ sorry for him,” said Socky, with 
a sigh. 

“Why?” 

“Cos he thinks his uncle beats the world an’ 
he ain’t nowhere.” 

“Maybe he’ll want to fight,” said Sue. 

“Then I’ll fetch him a cuff.” 

“ S’pose you was to break his neck?” 

“I’ll hit him in the breast,” said Socky, 
thoughtfully, feeling his muscle. 

Sue soon fell asleep, but Socky lay thinking 
about his father. He had crossed the edge of the 
beginning of trouble. He thought of those words 
14 


Silas Strong 

— and of a certain look which accompanied 
them — “I haven’t got a cent in the world.” 
What did they mean? He could only judge 
from experience — from moments when he had 
stood looking through glass windows and show- 
cases at things which had tempted him and 
which he had not been able to enjoy. Oh, the 
bitter pain of it! Must his father endure that 
kind of thing? He lay for a few moments 
weeping silently. 

All at once the thought of his little bank came 
to him. It was nearly full of pennies. He rose 
in bed and listened. The room was dark, but 
he could hear Aunt Marie at work in the kitchen. 
That gave him courage, and he crept stealthily 
out of bed and went to his trunk and felt for the 
little square house of painted tin with a slot in 
the chimney. It lay beneath his Sunday clothes, 
and he raised and gently shook it. He could 
hear that familiar and pleasant sound of the 
coin. 

Meanwhile his father had been sitting alone. 
For weeks he had been rapidly going downhill. 
His friends had all turned against him. He had 
been fairly stoned with reproaches. He could 
see only trouble behind, disgrace before, and 
despair on either side. He held a revolver in 

15 


Silas Strong 

his hand. A child’s voice rang out in the si- 
lence, calling “ father.” 

Gordon leaned forward upon the table. He 
began to be conscious of things beyond himself. 
He heard the great mill-saw roaring in the still 
night ; he heard the tick of the clock near him. 
Suddenly his little son peered through the half- 
open door. 

“Father,” Socky whispered. 

Gordon started from his chair, and, seeing the 
boy, sat down again. 

Socky was near crying but restrained himself. 
Without a word he deposited his bank on the 
table. It was a moment of solemn renunciation. 
He was like one before the altar giving up the 
vanities of the world. He looked soberly at his 
father and said, “I’m going to give you all my 
money.” 

Gordon said not a word and there was a mo- 
ment of silence. 

“More than a dollar in it,” the boy suggested, 
proudly. 

Still his father sat resting his head upon his 
hand in silence while he seemed to be trying the 
point of a pen. 

“You may give me five cents if you’ve a mind 
to when you open it,” Socky added. 

16 


Silas Strong 

Gordon turned slowly and kissed the forehead 
of his little son. The boy put his arms around 
the neck of his father and begged him to come 
and lie upon the bed and tell a story. 

So it happened the current of ruin was turned 
aside — the heat - oppressed brain diverted from 
its purpose. For as the man lay beside his 
children he began to think of them and less of 
himself. “I cannot leave them,” he concluded. 
“When I go I shall take them with me.” 

In the long, still hours he lay thinking. 

The south wind began to stir the pines, and 
cool air from out of the wild country came 
through an open window. Fathoms of dusty, 
dead air which had hung for weeks over the 
valley, growing hotter and more oppressive in 
the burning sunlight, moved away. A cloud 
passing northward flung a sprinkle of rain upon 
the broad, smoky flats and was drained before it 
reached the great river. All who were sick and 
weary felt the ineffable healing of the woodland 
breeze. It soothed the aching brain of the mill- 
owner and slackened the ruinous toil of his 
thoughts. 

Gordon slept soundly for the first time in al- 
most a month. 


II 


EXT morning Gordon felt better. 
He began even to consider what 
he could do to mend his life. 

The children got ready for 
Sunday-school and were on their 
way to church an hour ahead of time. Sue, in 
her white dress and pretty bonnet, walked with a 
self-conscious, don’t- touch-me air. Socky, in his 
little sailor suit, had the downward eye of medi- 
tation. Each carried a Testament and looked 
neither to right nor left. They hurried as if 
eager for spiritual refreshment. They were, how- 
ever, like the veriest barbarians setting out with 
spears and arrows in quest of revenge. They 
were thinking of Lizzie Cornell and that boy of 
the red head and the doomed uncle. Socky ’s 
lips moved silently as he hurried. One might 
have inferred that he was repeating his golden 
text. Such an inference would have been far 
from the truth. He was, in fact, tightening the 
grasp of memory on those inspiring words: “an’ 
18 



Silas Strong 

Uncle Sile fetched him a cuff with his fist an’ 
broke the bear’s neck, an’ then he brought him 
home on his back an’ et him for dinner.” They 
joined a group of children who were sitting on 
the steps of the old church. Their hearts beat 
fast when they saw Lizzie coming with her 
cousin, the red-headed boy. 

A number went forth to meet the two. 

“Tell us the badger story,” said they to the 
red-headed boy. 

“Pooh! that ain’t much,” he answered, mod- 
estly. 

“Please tell us,” they insisted. 

“ Wal, one day my Uncle Mose see a side- hi 11 
badger — ” 

“What’s a side -hill badger?” a voice inter- 
rupted. 

“An animal what lives on a hill, an’ has legs 
longer on one side than on t’other, so’t he can 
run round the side of it,” said he, glibly, and 
with a look of pity for such ignorance. 

“Go on with the story,” said another voice. 

“My Uncle Mose sat an’ watched one day up 
in the limb of a tree above the hole of a badger. 
By-an’-by an ol’ he badger come out, an’ my 
uncle dropped onto his back, an’ rode him round 
an’ round the hill ’til he was jes’ tuckered out. 

19 


Silas Strong 

Then Uncle Mose put a rope on his neck an’ tied 
him to a tree, an’ the ol’ badger dug an’ dug 
until they was a hole in the ground so big you 
could put a house in it. An’ my uncle he got 
an idee, an’ so one day he fetched him out to 
South Colton an’ learnt him how to dig wells 
an’ cellars, an’ bym-by the ol’ badger could earn 
more money than a hired man.” 

“Shucks!” said Socky, turning upon his ad- 
versary with sneering, studied scorn. “That’s 
nothing!” 

Then proudly stepping forward, he flung the 
latest exploit of his Uncle Silas into the freckled 
face of the red-headed boy. It stunned the able 
advocate of old Moses Leonard — a mighty hunter 
in his time — and there fell a moment of silence 
followed by murmurs of applause. 

The little barbarian — Lizzie Cornell — -had be- 
gun to scent the battle and stood sharpening an 
arrow. 

“It’s a lie,” said the red-headed boy, recover- 
ing the power of speech. 

“ His father’s a thief an’ a drunkard, anyway.” 
That was the arrow of Lizzie Cornell. 

Socky had raised his fists to vindicate his 
honor, when, hearing the remark about his father, 
he turned quickly upon the girl who made it. 


20 


Silas Strong 

What manner of rebuke he would have ad- 
ministered, history is unable to record. The 
minister had come. The children began to 
scatter. Lizzie and her red-headed cousin ran 
around the church. Socky and Sue stood with 
angry faces. 

Suddenly Socky leaned upon the church door 
and burst into tears. He dimly comprehended 
the disgrace which Lizzie had sought to put upon 
him. The minister could not persuade him to 
enter the church or to explain the nature of his 
trouble. 

When all had gone into Sunday-school, the boy 
turned, wiping his eyes. Sue stood beside him, 
a portrait of despair. 

“Le’s go home an’ tell our father,” said she. 

They started slowly, but as their indignation 
grew their feet hurried. Neither spoke in the 
long journey to their door. They ran through 
the hall and rushed in upon their father who sat 
reading. 

“Oh, father!” said the girl, in excited tones; 
“ Lizzie Cornell says you’re a thief an’ a drunk- 
ard.” 

Gordon rose and turned pale. 

The hands and voices of the children were 
ever raised against him. 


Silas Strong 

“ It’s a lie!” said he, turning away. 

He stood a moment looking out of the window. 
He must take them to some lonely part of the 
wilderness and there make an end of his trouble 
and of theirs. He turned to the children, saying, 
“ Right after dinner we’ll start for the woods.” 

So it befell that in the afternoon of a Sunday 
late in June, Socky and Sue, with all their effects 
in a pack-basket, and their father beside them, 
started in a spring- wagon over the broad, stony 
terraces that lift southward into thickening 
woods, on their way to great peril. 

And so, too, it befell that in leaving home and 
the tearful face of dear Aunt Marie, they were 
sustained by a thought of that good and mighty 
man whom they hoped soon to see — their Uncle 
Silas. 


Ill 



HE day was hot and still. Slowly 
they mounted the foot-hills be- 
tween meadows aglow with color. 
The country seemed to flow ever 
downward past their sleepy eyes 
on its way to the great valley. The daisies 
were like white foam on the slow cascade of Bow- 
man’s Hill, and there were masses of red and 
yellow which appeared to be drifting on the 
flats. A driver sat on the front seat, and Gor- 
don behind with Socky and Sue. The little folk 
chattered together and wearied their father with 
queries about birds and beasts. By-and-by the 
girl grew silent, her chin sank upon her breast, 
and her head began to shake and sway as their 
wagon clattered over the rough road. In a 
moment Socky ’s head was nodding also, and the 
feet of both swung limp below the wagon-seat. 

They had seemed to sink and rise and struggle 
and cry out in the silence, and were now as those 
drowned beneath it. Gordon drew them tow- 


23 


Silas Strong 

ards him and lifted their legs upon the cush- 
ioned wagon -seat. He sat thinking as they 
rode. They had been hard on him — those 
creditors. He had not meant to steal, but only 
to borrow that small sum which he had taken 
out of the business in order to feed and clothe 
the children who lay beside him. True, some 
dollars of it had gone to buy oblivion — a few 
hours of unearned, of unholy relief. How else, 
thought he, could he have stood the reproaches 
of brutal men ? 

They arrived at Tupper’s Mill late in the after- 
noon. There Gordon found a canoe and made 
ready. At this point the river turned like a 
scared horse and ran east by south, around Tup- 
per Ridge, in a wide loop, and, as if doubting 
its way, slackened pace, and, wavering right and 
left, moved slowly into the shade of the forest, 
and then, as if reassured, went on at a full 
gallop, leaping over the cliff at Fiddler’s Falls. 
Below, it turned to the north, and, seeming to 
see its way at last, grew calm and crossed the 
flats wearily, covered with foam. 

Socky woke and rubbed his eyes when he 
and his sister were taken out of the wagon. 
Sue continued to sleep, although carried like a 
sack of meal under the arm of the driver and 


24 


Silas Strong 

laid amidships on a blanket. Mr. Tupper, the 
mill man, gave them a piece of meat which, out 
of courtesy to the law, he called “mountain 
lamb.” With pack aboard and Socky on a 
blanket in the bow, Gordon pushed his canoe 
into the current. 

All who journeyed to the Lost River country 
from the neighborhood of Hillsborough arrived 
at Tupper’s late in the afternoon. There, gen- 
erally, they took canoe and paddled six miles 
to a log inn at the head of the still water. But 
as Gordon started from Tupper’s Mill down 
stream he had in mind a destination not on any 
map of this world. Socky sat facing him, a little 
hand on either gunwale. 

Socky had thought often that day of the in- 
cident of the night before and of his father’s 
poverty. Now he looked him over from head 
to foot. He saw the little steel chain fastened 
to his father’s waistcoat and leading into the 
pocket where he knew that his own watch lay 
hidden. The look of it gave him a feeling of 
great virtue and satisfaction. 

“ Father, will you please tell me what time it 
is?” he inquired. 

Gordon removed the watch from his pocket. 
“Half-past six. We’ve got to push on.” 

2 5 


3 


Silas Strong 

It was fine to see that watch in his father’s 
hand. 

“I’m going to give it to you,” said the boy, 
soberly. “You can wear it Sundays an’ every 
day.” 

Gordon looked into the eyes of his son. He 
saw there the white soul of the little traveller 
just entering upon the world. 

“I’m going to buy you some new clothes, too,” 
said Socky, now overflowing with generosity. 

“Where ’ll you get the money?” 

“From my Uncle Silas.” After a few mo- 
ments Socky added, “If I was Lizzie Cornell’s 
father I’d give her a good whipping.” 

They rode in silence awhile, and soon the 
boy lay back on his blanket looking up at the 
sky. 

“Father,” said he, presently. 

“What?” 

“I’m good to you, ain’t I?” 

“Very.” 

There was a moment of silence, and then the 
boy added, “I love you.” 

Those words gave the man a new sense of 
comfort. If he could have done so he would 
have embraced his son and covered his face 
with kisses. 


26 


Silas Strong 

The sun had sunk low and they were entering 
the edge of the night and the woodland. Soon 
the boy fell asleep. The silence of the illimitable 
sky seemed to be flooding down and delightful 
sounds were drifting on its current. They had 
passed the inn long ago and walls of fir and pine 
were on either side of them. Gordon put into a 
deep cove, stopping under the pine-trees with his 
bow on a sand-bar. Then he let himself down, 
stretching his legs on the canoe bottom and lying 
back on his blanket. 

For a long time he lay there thinking. He 
had been a man of some refinement, and nature 
had punished him, after an old fashion, for the 
abuse of it with extreme sensitiveness. He had 
come to the Adirondacks from a New England 
city and married and gone into business. At 
first he had prospered, and then he had begun 
to go down. 

He had been a lover of music and a reader of 
the poets. As he lay thinking in the early dusk 
he heard the notes of the wood-thrush. That 
bird was like a welcoming trumpeter before the 
gate of a palace ; it bade him. be at home. Above 
all he could hear the water song of Fiddler’s Falls 
— the tremulous, organ bass of rock caverns upon 
which the river drummed as it fell, the chorus of 
27 


Silas Strong 

the on-rushing stream and great overtones in the 
timber. 

Sound and rhythm seemed to be full of that 
familiar strain — so like a solemn warning: 



A long time he sat hearing it. He began to 
feel ashamed of his folly and awakened to the 
inspiration of a new purpose. He rose and 
looked about him. 

When you enter a house you begin to feel the 
heart of its owner. Something in the walls and 
furnishings, something in the air — is it a vibra- 
tion which dead things have gathered from the 
living?; — bids you welcome or warns you to de- 
part. It is the true voice of the master. As 
Gordon came into the wilderness he felt like one 
returning to his father’s house. In this great 
castle the heart of its Master seemed to speak to 
him with a tenderness fatherly and unmistak- 
able. 


28 


Silas Strong 

A subtle force like that we find in houses built 
with hands now bade him welcome. “ Lie down 
and rest, my son,” it seemed to say. “Let not 
your heart be troubled. Here in your Father’s 
house are forgiveness and plenty.” 

He put away the thought of death. He cov- 
ered the sleeping boy and girl, pushed his canoe 
forward upon the sand, and lying back comfort- 
ably soon fell asleep. 

He awoke refreshed at sunrise. The great, 
green fountain of life, in the midst of which he 
had rested, now seemed to fill his heart with its 
uplifting joy and energy and persistence. 

He built a fire under the trees and broiled the 
meat and made toast and coffee. He lifted the 
children in his arms and kissed them with un- 
usual tenderness. 

“To-day we’ll see Uncle Silas,” Gordon as- 
sured them. 

“My Uncle Silas!” said the boy, fondly. 

“He’s mine, too,” Sue declared. 

“He’s both of our’n,” Socky allowed, as they 
began to eat their breakfast. 


IV 

ILAS STRONG, or “ Panther Sile,” 
as the hunters called him, spent 
every winter in the little forest 
hamlet of Pitkin and every sum- 
mer in the woods. 

Lawrence County was the world, 
and game, wood, and huckleberries the fulness 
thereof ; all beyond was like the reaches of space 
unexplored and mysterious. God was only a 
word — one may almost say — and mostly part of 
a compound adjective; hell was Ogdensburg, to 
which he had once journeyed; and the devil was 
Colonel Jedson. This latter opinion, it should be 
said, grew out of an hour in which the Colonel 
had bullied him in the witness-chair, and not to 
any lasting resemblance. 

As to Ogdensburg itself, the hunter had based 
his judgment upon evidence which, to say the 
least, was inconclusive. When Sile and the 
city first met, they regarded each other with ex- 
treme curiosity. A famous hunter, as he moved 
3 ° 



To Sile, St. 


Silas Strong 

along the street with rifle, pack, and panther-skin, 
Sile was trying to see everything, and everything 
seemed to be trying to see Sile. The city was 
amused while the watchful eye of Silas grew 
weary and his bosom filled with distrust. One 
tipsy man offered him a jack-knife as a com- 
pliment to the length of his nose, and before he 
could escape a new acquaintance had wrong- 
fully borrowed his watch. His conclusions re- 
garding the city were now fully formed. He 
broke with it suddenly, and struck out across 
country and tramped sixty miles without a rest. 
Ever after the thought of Ogdensburg revived 
memories of confusion, headache, and irrepara- 
ble loss. So, it is said, when he heard the min- 
ister describing hell one Sunday at the little 
school-house in Pitkin, he had no doubt either 
of its existence or its location. 

All this, however, relates to antecedent years of 
our history — years which may not be wholly neg- 
lected if one is to understand what follows them. 

After the death of his sister — the late Mrs. 
Gordon — Strong began to read his Bible and to 
cut his trails of thought further and further 
towards his final destination. A deeper rever- 
ence and a more correct notion of the devil re- 
warded his labor. 


3i 


Silas Strong 

It must be added that his meditations led 
him to one remarkable conclusion — namely, that 
all women were angels. His parents had left 
him nothing save a maiden sister named Cyn- 
thia, and characterized by some as “a reg’lar 
human panther.” 

“Wherever Sile is they’s panthers,” said a 
guide once, in the little store at Pitkin. 

“Don’t make no dif’er’nce whuther he’s t’ 
home er in the woods,” said another, solemnly. 

That was when God owned the wilderness 
and kept there a goodly number of his big cats, 
four of which had fallen before the rifle of 
Strong. 

Cynthia, in his view, had a special sanctity, 
but there was another woman whom he regarded 
with great tenderness — a cheery -faced maiden 
lady of his own age and of the name of Annette. 

To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave 
her this title without any thought or knowledge 
of foreign customs. “Miss Roice” would have 
been too formal, and “ Ann ” or “ Annette ” would 
have been too familiar. “Lady Ann” seemed 
to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity,, 
and distinction. In his view a “lady” was a 
creature as near perfection as anything could be 
in this world. 


3 2 


Silas Strong 

When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the 
log school-house. Since the death of her mother 
the care of the little home had fallen upon her. 
She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature 
with a genius for housekeeping. 

June had come, and Silas was getting ready to 
go into camp. There was no longer any peace 
for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest 
and the sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. 
Had he not heard in his dreams the splash of 
leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads ? 
In the midst of his preparations, although a 
silent man, the tumult of joy in his breast came 
pouring out in the whistled refrain of “ Yankee 
Doodle.” It was a general and not a special 
sense of satisfaction which caused him to shake 
with laughter now and then as he made his way 
along the rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his 
long nose thoughtfully. 

A nature-loving publisher, who often visited 
his camp, had printed some cards for him. They 
bore these modest words : 

S. Strong 

GUIDE AND CONTRIVER 

He was able in either capacity, but his great 
gift lay in tongue control — in his management 
33 


Silas Strong 

of silence. He was what they called in that 
country “a one-word man.” The phrase in- 
dicated that he was wont to express himself with 
all possible brevity. He never used more than 
one word if that could be made to satisfy the 
demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even 
though provocation might lift his feeling to high 
degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale 
of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse. 

His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a 
little, but they were in the end as brief and em- 
phatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of 
brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that 
he stammered slightly, especially in moments of 
excitement, but more to his life in the silence 
of the deep woods. 

Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the 
store and was nearing his winter home — a rude 
log-house' in the little forest hamlet. He let the 
basket down from his broad back to the door- 
step. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, stem- 
faced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood 
looking down at him. 

“Wal, what now?” she demanded, in a voice 
not unlike that of a pea-hen. 

“T’-t’-morrer,” he stammered, in a loud and 
cheerful tone. 


34 


Silas Strong 

“What time to-morrer?” 

“ D-daylight.” 

“ I knew it,” she snapped, sinking into a chair, 
the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon 
her. “You’ve got t’ hankerin’.” 

Silas said nothing, but entered the house and 
took a drink of water. Cynthia snapped: 

“ If I wanted t’ marry Net Roice I’d marry ’er 
an’ not be dilly-dallyin’ all my life.” 

Cynthia was now fifty years of age, and re- 
garded with a stem eye every act of man which 
bore any suggestion of dilly-dallying. 

“ Ain’t g-good ’nough,” he stammered, calmly. 

“You’re fool ’nough,” she declared, with a 
twang of ill-nature. 

“S-supper, Mis’ Strong,” said he, stirring the 
fire. 

Whenever his sister indulged in language of 
unusual loudness and severity he was wont to 
address her in a gentle tone as “Mis’ Strong” — 
the only kind of retaliation to which he resorted. 
He shortened the “Miss” a little, so that his 
words might almost be recorded as “ Mi’ Strong.” 
In those rare and cheerful moments when her 
mood was more in harmony with his own he 
called her “Sinth” for short. In his letters, 
which were few, he had addressed her as “ deer 
35 


Silas Strong 


sinth.” She was, therefore, a compound person, 
consisting of a severe and dissenting character 
called “Mis’ Strong,” and a woman of few 
words and a look of sickliness and resigna- 
tion who answered to the pseudonyme of 
“Sinth.” 

Born and brought up in the forest, there was 
much in Silas and Cynthia that suggested the 
wild growth of the woodland. Their sister — 
the late Mrs. Gordon — had beauty and a head 
for books. She had gone to town and worked 
for her board and spent a year in the academy. 
Silas and Cynthia, on the other hand, were 
without beauty or learning or refinement, nor 
had they much understanding of the laws of 
earth or heaven, save what nature had taught 
them; but the devotion of this man to that 
querulous little wild - cat of a sister was re- 
markable. She was to him a sacred heritage. 
For love of her he had carried with him these 
ten years a burden, as it were, of suppressed 
and yearning affection. Silas Strong alone might 
even have been “good enough,” in his own esti- 
mation, but he accepted “ Mis’ Strong” as a kind 
of flaw in his own character. 

Every June he went to his camp at Lost River, 
taking Sinth to cook for him, and returning in 
3 6 


Silas Strong 

the early winter. Next day, at sunrise, they 
were to start for the woods. 

To-day he helped to get supper, and, having 
wiped the dishes, put on his best suit, his fine 
boots, his new felt hat, and walked a mile to the 
little farm of Uncle Ben Roice. He carried with 
him a gray squirrel in a cage, and, as he walked, 
sang in a low voice : 

“ All for the love of a charmin' creature, 

All for the love of a lady fair.” 

It was like any one of a thousand visits he had 
made there. Annette met him at the door. 

“Why, of all things!” said she. “What have 
you here?” 

“C’ris’mus p-present, Lady Ann,” said he. 

It should be said that with Silas a gift was a 
“Christmas present” every day in the year — • 
the cheerful spirit of that time being always with 
him. 

He proudly put the cage in her hands. 

“Much obliged to you, Sile,” said she, laugh- 
ing. 

“ S-Strong’s ahead!” he stammered, cheerfully. 

This indicated that in his fight with the 
powers of evil Strong felt as if he had at least 
37 


Silas Strong 

temporary advantage. When, perhaps, after a 
moment of anger it seemed that the Evil One 
had got the upper hold on him, he was wont to 
exclaim, “Satan’s ahead!” But the historian 
is glad to say that those occasions were, in the 
main, rare and painful. 

“ Strong will never give in,” said Annette, with 
laughter. 

Strong’s affection was expressed only in signs 
and tokens. Of the former there were his care- 
ful preparation for each visit, and many sighs 
and blushes, and now and then a tender glance 
of the eye. Of tokens there had been many — 
a tame fox, ten mink-skins, a fawn, a young 
thrush, a pancake-turner carved out of wood, 
and other important trifles. For twenty years 
he had been coming, but never a word of love 
had passed between them. 

Silas sat in a strong wooden chair. Under the 
sky he never thought of his six feet and two 
inches of bone and muscle ; now it seemed to fill 
his consciousness and the little room in which 
he sat. To-day and generally he leaned against 
the wall, a knee in his hands as if to keep him- 
self in proper restraint. 

“Did you just come to bring me that squir- 
rel?” Annette inquired. 

38 


Silas Strong 

“No,” he answered. 

“What then?” 

“Squirrel come t’ b-bring me.” 

“Silas Strong!” she exclaimed, playfully, 
amazed by his frankness. 

He put his big hand over his face and enjoyed 
half a minute of silent laughter. 

“Silas Strong!” she repeated. 

“Present,” said he, as if answering the call 
of the roll, and sobering as he uncovered his 
face. 

In conversation Silas had a way of partly 
closing one eye while the other opened wide 
beneath a lifted brow. The one word of the 
Emperor was inadequate. He was, indeed, pres- 
ent, but he was extremely happy also, a con- 
dition which should have been freely acknowl- 
edged. It must be said, however, that his feat- 
ures made up in some degree for the idleness 
of his tongue. He brushed them with a down- 
ward movement of his hand, as if to remove all 
traces of levity and prepare them for their part 
in serious conversation. 

“All w-well?” he inquired, soberly. 

“Eat our allowance,” said she, sitting near 
him. “How’s Miss Strong?” 

“S-supple!” he answered. Then he ran his 
39 


Silas Strong 

fingers through his blond hair and soberly ex- 
claimed, “Weasels!” 

This remark indicated that weasels had been 
killing the poultry and applying stimulation to 
the tongue of Miss Strong. Silas had sent her 
fowls away to market the day before. 

“Too bad!” was the remark of Lady Ann. 

“Fisht?” By this word Silas meant to in- 
quire if she had been fishing. 

“Yesterday. Over at the falls — caught ten,” 
said she, getting busy with her knitting. 
“B-big?” 

“Three that long,” she answered, measuring 
with her thread. 

He gave a loud whistle of surprise, thought 
a moment, and exclaimed, “ M-mountaneyous!” 
He used this word when contemplating in imag- 
ination news of a large and important character. 

“ How have you been?” 

“Stout,” he answered, drawing in his breath. 

Annette rose and seemed to go in search of 
something. The kindly gray eyes of Silas Strong 
followed her. A smile lighted up his face. It 
was a very plain face, but there was yet some- 
thing fine about it, something which invited 
confidence and respect. The Lady Ann entered 
her own room, and soon returned. 

40 


Silas Strong 

“Shut yer eyes,” said she. 

“What f-for?” 

“ Chris’mas present.” 

Silas obeyed, and she thrust three pairs of socks 
into his coat-pocket. With a smile he drew them 
out. Then a partly smothered laugh burst from 
his lips, and he held his hand before his face and 
shook with good feeling. 

“S-socks!” he exclaimed. 

“There are two parts of a man which always 
ought to be kep’ warm — his heart an’ his feet,” 
said she. 

Silas whacked his knee with his palm and 
laughed heartily, his wide eye aglow with merri- 
ment. His expression quickly turned serious. 

“B-bears plenty!” he exclaimed, as he felt 
of the socks and looked them over. This re- 
mark indicated that a season of unusual happi- 
ness and prosperity had arrived. 

Worked in white yarn at the top of each leg 
were the words, “Remember me.” 

“T-till d-death,” he whispered. 

“With me on your mind an’ them on your 
feet you ought to be happy,” said Annette. 

“An’ w-warm,” he answered, soberly. 

Presently she read aloud to him from the St. 
Lawrence Republican. 


41 


Silas Strong 

“S-some day,” said Silas, when at last he had 
risen to go. 

“Some day,” she repeated, with a smile. 

The only sort of engagement between them 
lay in the two words “some day.” They served 
as an avowal of love and intention. Amplified, 
as it were, by look and tone as well as by the 
pressure of the hand - clasp, they were under- 
stood of both. 

To-day as Annette returned the assurance she 
playfully patted his cheek, a rare token of her 
approval. 

Silas left her at the door and made his way 
down the dark road. He began to give himself 
some highly pleasing assurances. 

“S-some day — tall t- talkin’,” he stammered, 
in a whisper, and then he began to laugh silently. 

“Patted my cheek!” he whispered. Then he 
laughed again. 

At the store he had filled his pack with flour, 
ham, butter, and like provisions for Lost River 
camp. At Annette’s he had filled his heart with 
renewed hope and happiness and was now pre- 
pared for the summer. While he walked along 
he fell to speculating as to whether Annette 
could live under the same roof with Cynthia. 
A hundred times he had considered whether 


42 


Silas Strong 

he could ask her, and as usual he concluded, 
“Ca-can’t.” 

The hunter had an old memorandum-book 
which was a kind of storehouse for thought, 
hope, and reflection. Therein he seemed always 
to regard himself objectively and spoke of Strong 
as if he were quite another person. Before going 
to bed that evening he made these entries : 

“ June the 23. Strong is all mellered up. 

“ Snags.” 

With him the word “meller” meant to soften, 
and sometimes, even, to conquer with the club. 

The word “ snags ” undoubtedly bore reference 
to the difficulties that beset his way. 


V 

ILAS and his sister ate their break- 
fast by candle-light and were off 
on the trail before sunrise, a small, 
yellow dog of the name of Zeb 
following. Zeb was a bear - dog 
with a cross-eye and a serious countenance. He 
was, in the main, a brave but a prudent animal. 
One day he attacked a bear, which had been 
stunned by a bullet, and before he could dodge 
the bear struck him knocking an eye out. 
Strong had put it back, and since that day his 
dog had borne a cross-eye. 

Zeb had a sense of dignity highly becoming 
in a creature of his attainments. This morning, 
however, he scampered up and down the trail, 
whining with great joy and leaping to lick the 
hand of his master. “Sinth” walked spryly, a 
little curt in her manner, but passive and re- 
signed. Silas carried a heavy pack, a coon in a 
big cage, and led a fox. When he came to soft 
places he set the cage down and tethered the 
44 



Silas Strong 

fox, and, taking Sinth in his arms, carried her as 
one would carry a baby. Having gained better 
footing, he would let Sinth down upon a log 
or a mossy rock to rest and return for his 
treasures. After two or three hours of trav- 
el the complaining “Mis’ Strong” would ap- 
pear. 

“Seems so ye take pleasure wearin’ me out 
on these here trails,” she would say. “Why 
don’t ye walk a little faster?” 

“W-whoa!” he would answer, cheerfully. 
“ Roughlocks!” 

The roughlock, it should be explained, was a 
form of brake used by log-haulers to check their 
bobs on a steep hill. In the conversation of 
Silas it was a cautionary signal meaning hold 
up and proceed carefully. 

“You don’t care if you do kill me — gallopin’ 
through the woods here jes’ like a houn’ after a 
fox. I won’t walk another step — not another 
step.” 

“ Rur - roughlocks!” he commanded himself, 
as he tied the fox and set the coon down. 

“Won’t ride either,” she would declare, with 
emphasis. 

“W-wings on, Mis’ Strong?” Silas had been 
known to ask, in a tone of great gentleness. 

45 


Silas Strong 

She would be apt to answer, “ If I had wings, 
I’d see the last o’ you.” 

Then a little time of rest and silence, after 
which the big, gentle hunter would shoulder his 
pack and lift in his arms the slender and com- 
plaining Miss Strong and carry her up the long 
grade of Bear Mountain. Then he would make 
her comfortable and return for his pets. 

That day, having gone back for the fox and 
the coon, he concluded to try the experiment 
of putting them together. Before then he had 
given the matter a good deal of thought, for if 
the two were in a single package, as it were,' 
the problem of transportation would be greatly 
simplified. He could fasten the coon cage on 
the top of his pack, and so avoid doubling the 
trail. He led the fox and carried the coon to 
the point where Sinth awaited him. Then he 
removed the chain from the fox’s collar, care- 
fully opened the cage, and thrust him in. The 
swift effort of both animals to find quarter near- 
ly overturned the cage. Spits and growls of 
warning followed one another in quick succes- 
sion. Then each animal braced himself against 
an end of the cage, indulging, as it would seem, 
in continuous complaint and recrimination. 

“Y-you behave!” said Silas, wamingly, as he 
46 


Silas Strong 

put the' cage on top of his basket and fastened a 
stout cord from bars to buckles. 

“They’ll fight!” Sinth exclaimed. 

“Let ’em f-fight,” said Silas, who had sat 
down before his pack and adjusted the shoulder- 
straps. 

The growling increased as he rose carefully to 
his feet, and with a swift movement coon and 
fox exchanged positions. Sinth descended the 
long hill afoot, and Silas went on cautiously, a 
low, continuous murmur of hostile sound rising 
in the air behind him. Each animal seemed to 
think it necessary to remind the other with 
every breath he took that he was prepared to 
defend himself. Their enmity was, it would 
> appear, deep and racial. 

At Cedar Swamp, in the flat below, the big 
hunter took Sinth in his arms. Then the sound 
of menace and complaint rose before and behind 
him. Slowly he proceeded, his feet sinking deep 
in the wet moss. Stepping on hummocks in a 
dead creek, he slipped and fell. The little ani- 
mals were flung about like shot in a bottle. 
Each seemed to hold the other responsible for 
his discomfiture. They came together in deadly 
conflict. The sounds in the cage resembled an 
explosion of fire -crackers under a pan. Sinth 
47 


Silas Strong 

lifted her voice in a loud outcry of distress and 
accusation. Without a word the hunter scram- 
bled to his feet, renewed his hold upon the com- 
plaining Sinth, and set out for dry land. Luckily 
the mud was not above his boot-tops. The cage 
creaked and hurtled. The animals rolled from 
side to side in their noisy encounter. The in- 
dignant Sinth struggled to get free with loud, 
hysteric cries. Strong ran beneath his burden. 
He gained the dry trail, and set his sister upon 
the ground. He flung off the shoulder-straps, 
and with a stick separated the animals. He 
opened the cage and seized the fox by the nape 
of the neck, and, before he could haul him forth, 
got a nip on the back of his hand. He lifted 
the spitting fox and fastened the chain upon his 
collar. Then Silas put his hands on his hips 
and blew like a frightened deer. 

“ Hell’s b-bein’ raised, ’ ’ he muttered, as if taking 
counsel with himself against Satan. “ C-careful !” 

He was in a mood between amusement and 
anger, but was dangerously near the latter. 

A little profanity, felt but not expressed, 
warmed his spirit, so that he kicked the coon’s 
cage and tumbled it bottom side up. In a 
moment he recovered self-control, righted the 
cage, and whispered, “S-Satan’s ahead!” 

48 


Silas Strong 

The wound upon his hand was bleeding, but 
he seemed not to mind it. 

Having done his best for the comfort of his 
sister, he brushed the mud from his boots and 
trousers, filled his pipe, and sat meditating in a 
cloud of tobacco-smoke. Presently he rose and 
shouldered his pack and untied the fox and 
lifted the coon cage. 

“I’ll walk if it kills me!” Sinth exclaimed, 
rising with a sigh of utter recklessness. 

“ T-’tain’t fur,” said Strong, as they renewed 
their journey. 

It was past mid-day when they got to camp, 
and Sinth lay down to rest while he fried some 
ham and boiled the potatoes and made tea and 
flapjacks by an open fire. 

When he sat on his heels and held his pan over 
the fire, the long woodsman used to shut up, as 
one might say, somewhat in the fashion of a 
jack-knife. He was wont to call it “ settin’ on 
his hunches.” His great left hand served for 
a movable screen to protect his face from the 
heat. As the odor and sound of the frying rose 
about him, his features took on a look of great 
benevolence. It was a good part of the meal 
to hear him announce, “ Di-dinner,” in a tender 
and cheerful tone. As he spoke it the word 


Silas Strong 

was one of great capacity for suggestion. When 
the sound of it rose and lingered on its final r, 
that day they arrived at Lost River camp, Sinth 
awoke and came out-of-doors. 

“Strong’s g-gainin’!” he exclaimed, cheer- 
fully, meaning thereby to indicate that he hoped 
soon to overtake his enemy. 

The table of bark, fastened to spruce poles, 
each end lying in a crotch, had been covered 
with a mat of ferns and with clean, white dishes. 
Silas began to convey the food from fire to table. 
To his delight he observed that “Mis’ Strong” 
had gone into retirement. The face of his sister 
now wore its better look of sickliness and resig- 
nation. 

“Opeydildock?” he inquired, tenderly, pour- 
ing from a flask into a cup. 

“No, sir,” she answered, curtly, her tone add- 
ing a rebuke to her negative answer. 

“Le’s s-set,” said he, soberly. 

They sat and ate their dinner, after which 
Silas went back on the trail to cut and bring 
wood for the camp - fire. When his job was 
finished, the rooms were put to rights, the stove 
was hot and clean, and an excellent supper 
waiting. 

Strong’s camp consisted of three little log- 
5 ° 


Silas Strong 

cabins and a large cook-tent. The end of each 
cabin was a rude fireplace built of flat rocks en- 
closed by upright logs which, lined with sheet- 
iron, towered above the roof for a chimney. 
Each floor an odd mosaic of wooden blocks, 
each wall sheathed with redolent strips of cedar, 
each rude divan bottomed with deer-skin and 
covered with balsam pillows, each bedstead of 
peeled spruce neatly cut and joined — the whole 
represented years of labor. Every winter Silas 
had come through the woods on a big sled with 
“new improvements’' for camp. Now there 
were spring-beds and ticks filled with husks in 
the cabins, a stove and all needed accessories 
in the cook- tent. 

Ever since he could carry a gun Silas had set 
his traps and hunted along the valley of Lost 
River, ranging over the wild country miles from 
either shore. Twenty thousand acres of the 
wilderness, round about, had belonged to Smith 
& Gordon, who gave him permission to build 
his camp. When he built, timber and land had 
little value. Under the great, green roof from 
Bear Mountain to Four Ponds, from the Ra- 
quette to the Oswegatchie, one might have en- 
joyed the free hospitality of God. 

From a time he could not remember, this 
5i 


Silas Strong 

great domain had been the home of Silas Strong. 
He loved it, and a sense of proprietorship had 
grown within him. Therein he had need only 
of matches, a blanket, and a rifle. One might 
have led him blindfolded, in the darkest night, 
to any part of it and soon he would have got his 
bearings. In many places the very soles of his 
feet would have told him where he stood. 

Long ago its owners had given him charge of 
this great tract. He had forbidden the hound- 
ing of deer and all kinds of greedy slaughter, and 
had made campers careful with fire. Soon he 
came to be called “ The Emperor of the Woods,” 
and every hunter respected his laws. 

Slowly steam-power broke through the hills 
and approached the ramparts of the Emperor. 
This power was like one of the many hands of 
the republic gathering for its need. It started 
wheels and shafts and bore day and night upon 
them. Now the song of doom sounded in far 
corridors of the great sylvan home of Silas 
Strong. 

It was only a short walk to where the dead 
hills lay sprinkled over with ashes, their rock 
bones bleaching in the sun beneath columns of 
charred timber. The spruce and pine had gone 
with the ever-flowing stream, and their dead 
52 


Silas Strong 

tops had been left to dry and burn with un- 
quenchable fury at the touch of fire, and to de- 
stroy everything, root and branch, and the 
earth out of which it grew. 

It concerned him much to note, everywhere, 
signs of a change in proprietorship. In Strong’s 
youth one felt, from end to end of the forest, 
this invitation of its ancient owner, “Come all 
ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will 
give you rest.” Now one saw much of this 
legend in the forest ways, “All persons are 
forbidden trespassing on this property under 
penalty of the law.” Proprietorship had, seem- 
ingly, passed from God to man. The land was 
worth now thirty dollars an acre. Silas had 
established his camp when the boundaries were 
indefinite and the old banners of welcome on 
every trail, and he felt the change. 


VI 


T was near sunset of the second 
day after the arrival of Sinth and 
Silas. They sat together in front 
of the cook-tent. Silas leaned for- 
ward smoking a pipe. His great, 
brawny arms, bare to the elbow, rested on his 
knees. His faded felt hat was tilted back. He 
was looking down at the long stretch of still 
water, fringed with lily-pads, and reflecting the 
colors of either shore. 

“You ’ain’t got a cent to yer name,” said 
Sinth, who was knitting. She gave the yarn a 
pull, and, as she did so, glanced up at her 
brother. 

“B-better times!” said he, rubbing his hands. 

“Better times!” she sneered. “I’d like to 
know how you can make money an’ charge a 
dollar a day for board.” 

Sportsmen visiting there paid for their board, 
and they with whom Silas went gave him three 
dollars a day for his labor. 

54 



Silas Strong 

The truth was that prosperity and Miss Strong 
were things irreconcilable. The representatives 
of prosperity who came to Lost River camp 
were often routed by the eye of resentment and 
the unruly tongue. Strong knew all this, but 
she was not the less sacred on that account. 
This year he had planned to bring a cow to camp 
and raise the price of board. 

“You s-see,” Strong insisted. 

“Huh!” Sinth went on; “we’ll mos’ kill our- 
selves, an’ nex’ spring we won’t have nothin’ 
but a lot o’ mink-skins.” 

Miss Strong, as if this reflection had quite 
overcome her, gathered up her knitting and 
hastened into the cook -tent, where for a mo- 
ment she seemed to be venting her spite on the 
flat-irons and the tea-kettle. Strong sat alone, 
smoking thoughtfully. Soon he heard footsteps 
on the trail. A stranger, approaching, bade him 
good-evening. 

“From the Migley Lumber Company,” the 
stranger began, as he gave a card to Strong. 
“We have bought the Smith & Gordon tract. 
I have come to bring this letter and have a talk 
with you.” 

Strong read the letter carefully. Then he 
rose and put his hands in his pockets, and, with 
55 


Silas Strong 

a sly wink at the stranger, walked slowly down 
the trail. He wished to go where Sinth would 
not be able to hear them. Some twenty rods 
away both sat down upon a log. The letter 
was, in effect, an order of eviction. 

“I got t’ g-go?” the Emperor inquired. 

“ That’s about the size of it,” said the stranger. 

“Can’t,” Strong answered. 

“Well, there’s no hurry,” said the other. 
“We shall be cutting here in the fall. I won’t 
disturb you this year.” 

Silas rose and stood erect before the lumber- 
man. 

“Cut everyth-thing?” he inquired, his hand 
sweeping outward in a gesture of peculiar elo- 
quence. 

“Everything from Round Ridge to Carter’s 
Plain,” said the other. 

Strong deliberately took off his jacket and 
laid it on a stump. He flung his hat upon 
the ground. Evidently something unusual was 
about to happen. Then, forthwith, he broke 
the silence of more than forty years and opened 
his heart to the stranger. He could not control 
himself ; his tongue almost forgot its infirmity ; 
his words came faster and easier as he went on. 

“N-no, no,” he said, “it can’t be. Ye ’ain’t 
5 6 


Silas Strong 

no r-right t’ do it, fer ye can't never put the 
w-woods back agin. My God, sir, I’ve w-wan- 
dered over these hills an’ flats ever since I was a 
little b-boy. There ain’t a critter on ’em that 
d-don’t know me. Seems so they was all my 
b -brothers. I’ve seen men come in here nigh 
dead an’ go back w-well. They ’s m-med’cine 
here t’ cure all the sickness in a hunderd cities; 
they ’s f-fur ’nough here t’ c-cover their naked — 
they ’s f-food ’nough t’ feed their hungry — an’ 
they ’s w-wood ’nough t’ keep ’em w-warm. God 
planted these w-woods an’ stocked ’em, an’ no- 
body’s ever d-done a day’s work here ’cept me. 
Now you come along an’ say you’ve bought ’em 
an’ are g-goin’ t’ shove us out. I c-can’t under- 
stand it. God m-made the sky an’ 1-lifted up 
the trees t’ sweep the dust out of it an’ pump 
water into the clouds an’ g-give out the breath 
o’ the g-ground. Y-you ’ain’t no right t’ git to- 
gether down there in Albany an’ make laws ag’in’ 
the will o’ God. Ye r-rob the world when ye take 
the tree-tops out o’ the sky. Ye might as well 
take the clouds out of it. God has gi’n us g-good 
air an’ the woods an’ the w-wild cattle, an’ it’s 
free — an’ you — you’re g-goin’ t’ turn ev’rybody 
out o’ here an’ seize the g-gift an’ trade it fer 

d-dollars — you d little bullcook!” 

57 


5 


Silas Strong 

A “bullcook,” it should be explained, was 
the chore-boy in a lumber-camp. 

Strong sat down and took out an old red hand- 
kerchief and wiped his eyes. 

He was thinking of the springs and brooks and 
rivers, of the cool shade, of the odors of the 
woodland, of the life-giving air, of the desola- 
tion that was to come. 

“It’s business/’ said the stranger, as if that 
word must put an end to all argument. 

A sound broke the silence like that of distant 
thunder. 

“Hear th-that,” Strong went on. “It’s the 
logs g-goin’ over Rainbow Falls. They’ve been 
stole off the state 1-lands. Th-that’s business, 
too. Business is king o’ this c-country. He 
t-takes everything he can 1-lay his hands on. 
He’d t-try t’ grab heaven if he could g-git over 
the f-fence an’ b-back agin.” 

“I am not here to discuss that,” said the 
stranger, rising to go. 

“Had s-supper?” Silas asked. 

“ I’ve a lunch in the canoe, thank you. The 
moon is up, an’ I’m going to push on to Cop- 
per Falls. Migley will be waiting for me. We 
shall camp there for a day or two at Cedar 
Spring. Good-night.” 


58 


Silas Strong 

“ Good-night.” 

It was growing dark. Strong’s outbreak had 
wearied him. He groaned and shook his head 
and stood a moment thinking. In the distance 
he could hear the hoot of an owl and the bull 
bass of frogs booming over the still water. 

“G-gone!” he exclaimed, presently. Soon he 
added, in a mournful tone, “W-wouldn’t d-dast 
tell Mis’ Strong.” 

He started slowly towards the camp. 

“I’ll 1-lie to her,” he whispered, as he went 
along. 

Before going to bed he made this note in his 
memorandum-book : 

“ June the 26 More snags Strong says trubei is like 
small pox thing to do is kepe it from spread in.” 


VII 


INCE early May there had been 
no rain save a sprinkle now and 
then. From Lake Ontario to Lake 
Champlain, from the St. Lawrence 
to Sandy Hook, the earth had been 
scorching under a hot sun. The heat and dust 
of midsummer had dimmed the glory of June. 

People those days were thinking less of the 
timber of the woods and more of their abundant, 
cool, and living green. The inns along the edge 
of the forest were filling up. 

About eleven o’clock of a morning late in 
June, a young man arrived at Lost River camp 
— one Robert Master, whose father owned a camp 
and some forty thousand acres not quite a day’s 
tramp to the north. He was a big, handsome 
youth of twenty-two, just out of college. Sinth 
regarded every new-comer as a natural enemy. 
She suspected most men of laziness and a ca- 
pacity for the oppression of females. She stood 
in severe silence at the door of the cook-tent and 
60 



Silas Strong 

looked him over as he came. Soon she went 
to the stove and began to move the griddles. 
Silas entered with an armful of wood. 

“If he thinks I’m goin’ to wait on him hand 
an’ foot, he’s very much mistaken,” said 
Sinth. 

“ R-roughlocks!” Silas answered, calmly, as he 
put a stick on the fire. 

Sinth made no reply, but began sullenly 
rushing to and fro with pots and pans. Soon 
her quick knife had taken the jackets off a 
score of potatoes. While her hands flew, water 
leaped on the potatoes, and the potatoes tum- 
bled into the pot, and the pot jumped into the 
stove-hole as the griddle took a slide across the 
top of the stove. And so with a rush of feet 
and a rattle of pots and pans and a sliding of 
griddles and a banging of iron doors “Mis’ 
Strong” wore off her temper at hard work. 

The Emperor used to smile at this variety of 
noise and call it “f-f-female profanity,” a phrase 
not wholly inapt. When the “sport” had fin- 
ished his dinner, and she and her brother sat 
side by side at the table, she was plain Sinth 
again, with a look of sickliness and resignation. 
She ate freely — but would never confess her 
appetite — and so leisurely that Strong often had 
61 


Silas Strong 

most of the dishes washed before she had fin- 
ished eating. 

The young man was eager to begin fishing, 
and soon after dinner the Emperor took him 
over to Catamount Pond. On their way the 
young man spoke of the object of his visit. 

“Mr. Strong, you know my father?” he half 
inquired. 

“Ay-ah,” the Emperor answered. 

“He’s been a property-holder in this county 
for five years, every summer of which I have 
spent on his land. I feel at home in the woods, 
and I cast my first vote at Tifton.” 

Strong listened thoughtfully. 

“ I want to do what I can to save the wilder- 
ness,” young Master went on. 

“R-right!” said the Emperor. 

“ If I were in the Legislature, I believe I could 
accomplish something. Anyhow, I am going to 
make a fight for the vacant seat in the Assem- 
bly.” 

Strong surveyed him from head to foot. 

“ I wish you would do what you can for me in 
Pitkin.” 

“Uh-huh!” Strong answered, in a gentle tone, 
without opening his lips. It was a way he had 
of expressing uncertainty leaning towards af- 
62 


Silas Strong 

firmation. He liked the young man ; there was, 
indeed, something grateful to him in the look 
and voice of a gentleman. 

“You’ll never be ashamed of me — I’ll see to 
that,” said Master. 

Having reached the little pond, Strong gave 
him his boat, and promised to return and bring 
him into camp at six. Here and there trout 
were breaking through the smooth plane of 
water. 

The Emperor took a bee-line over the wood- 
ed ridge to Robin Lake. There he spent an 
hour repairing his bark shanty and gathering 
balsam boughs for a bed. Stepping on a layer 
of spruce poles over which the boughs were to 
be spread, in a dark corner of the shanty, his 
foot went through and came down upon the 
nest of one of the most disagreeable creatures 
in the wilderness. He sprang away with an 
oath and fled into the open air. For a moment 
he expressed himself in a series of sharp reports. 
Then, picking up a long pole, he met the offend- 
ers leaving their retreat, and “mellered” them, 
as he explained to Sinth that evening. 

“T-take that, Amos,” he muttered, as he 
gave one of them another blow. 

It should be borne in mind that he called 

63 


Silas Strong 

every member of this malodorous tribe “ Amos,” 
because the meanest man he ever knew had 
borne that name. 

He put his heel in the crotch of a fallen limb 
and drew his boot. Then he cautiously cut off 
the leg of his trousers at the knee, and, poking 
cloth and leather into a little hollow, buried 
them under black earth. 

Slowly the “Emperor of the Woods” climbed 
a ridge on his way to Lost River camp, one leg 
bare to the knee. Walking, he thought of An- 
nette. Lately misfortune had come between 
them, and now he seemed to be getting farther 
from the trail of happiness. 

At a point on Balsam Hill he came into the 
main thoroughfare of the woodsmen which leads 
from Bear Mountain to Lost River camp. Where 
he could see far down the big trail, under arches 
of evergreen, he sat on a stump to rest. His 
bootless foot, now getting sore, rested on a giant 
toadstool. 

Thus enthroned, the Emperor looked down at 
his foot and reconsidered the relative positions 
of himself and the Evil One. His faded crown 
of felt tilting over one ear, his rough, bearded 
face wet with perspiration, his patched trousers 
truncated over the right knee, below which foot 
64 


Silas Strong 

and leg were uncovered, he was an emperor 
more distinguished for his appearance than his 
lineage. 

He took out his old memorandum-book and 
made this note in it with a stub of a pencil: 

“ June the 27 Strong says one Amos in the bush is 
worth two in yer company an a pair of britches.” 

The Emperor, although in the main a serious 
character, enjoyed some private fun with this 
worn little book, which he always carried with 
him. Therein he did most of his talking, with 
secret self - applause now and then, one may 
fancy. It has thrown some light on the inner 
life of the man, and, in a sense, it is one of the 
figures of our history. 


VIII 

ILAS put the book in his pocket 
and looked down the trail. Some 
ten rods away two children were 
running towards him, their hands 
full of wild flowers. They were 
Socky and Sue, on their way to Lost River camp, 
and were the first children — save one — who had 
ever set their feet on the old trail. Gordon 
walked slowly, under a heavy pack, well behind 
them. They knew they were near their destina- 
tion. Their father could scarcely keep them in 
hailing distance. 

Sue had observed that Socky’s generosity in 
the matter of the tin bank had pleased her 
father, and so, after much thought, she had 
determined to make a venture in benevolence. 

“When I see Uncle Silas, ” said she, “I’m 
going to give him the twenty-five cents my 
Aunt Marie gave me.” 

“Pooh! he’s got loads of money,” Socky an- 
swered. 



66 


Silas Strong 

They stopped suddenly. Sue dropped her 
flowers and turned to run. Socky gave a little 
jump and recovered his courage. Both re- 
treated a few steps. There, before them, was 
the dejected “Emperor of the Woods.’ ’ 

“Says I!” he exclaimed, looking down calmly 
from his throne. 

Socky glanced up at him fearfully. 

“Who b-be you?” 

“John Socksmith Gordon.” 

“T-y-ty!” exclaimed the Emperor, an express 
sion, as the historian believes, of great sur- 
prise, standing, perhaps, for the old oath 
“By ’Mighty.” It consisted of the pronuncia- 
tion of the two letters separately and then to- 
gether. 

The Emperor turned to the girl. “And 
y-yourn?” he inquired. 

“Susan Bradbury Gordon,” she answered, in 
a half -whisper. 

“I tnum!” exclaimed the Emperor, shaking 
his bootless foot, whereupon the new-comers 
retreated a little farther. The singular word 
“tnum” expressed an unusual degree of in- 
terest on the part of the Emperor. “G-goin’ 
fur?” he inquired. 

“To Lost River, to see my Uncle Silas.” 

67 


Silas Strong 

The Emperor gave a loud whistle of surprise, 
and repeated the exclamation — “I tnum!” 

“My father’s coming,” said Socky, as he 
pointed down the trail. 

“Whee-o!” whistled the “Emperor of the 
Woods,” who now perceived his brother-in-law 
ascending the trail. 

“Old man, what are you doing there?” Gor- 
don asked. 

“ThinkhT out some th-thoughts,” said the 
Emperor, soberly, as he came into the trail, 
limping on his bare foot, and shook hands. 
There were greetings, and the hunter briefly 
apologized for his bare leg and explained it. 

“Well, how are you?” Gordon asked, 

“S-supple!” Strong answered, cheerfully. 

The children got behind their father, peering 
from either side of him as they saw this un- 
couth figure coming near. Sue pressed the 
hand of her brother so tightly as to cause the 
boy to break her hold upon him. 

“R-ride?” said the Emperor, putting his 
great hand on the head of the boy and shaking 
it a little. Socky looked up at him with large, 
wondering, timid eyes. Sue hid her face under 
the coat-tails of her father. 

“They’d rather walk; come on,” said Gordon. 

68 


Silas Strong 

The men proceeded slowly over the hill and 
down into the valley of Lost River. The chil- 
dren followed, some twenty paces behind, whis- 
pering together. They were still in happy igno- 
rance of the identity of the strange man. 

“S-sold out — eh?” said the hunter. 

“Sold out! Sorry! They’re going to shove 
a railroad in here and begin cutting.” 

A smothered oath broke from the lips of the 
Emperor. Gordon came near to him and whis- 
pered : 

“Sile,” said he, “don’t swear before the kids. 
I’m bad enough, but I’ve always been careful 
about that. Going to leave ’em here if you’ll 
let me.” 

“ G-good — ” The Emperor stopped short and 
his voice fell into thoughtful silence. 

As they came in sight of the little clearing 
and the tent and cabins of Lost River camp, 
Sue and Socky ran ahead of the men. 

“I’m in trouble,” Gordon went on. “My ac- 
count at the mill is overdrawn. They’ve pushed 
me to the verge of madness. I must have a 
little help. 

The woodsman stopped and put his hand on 
the shoulder of Gordon. 

“Been f- foolish, Dick?” said he, kindly. 

69 


Silas Strong 

‘‘I’m done with that. I want to begin new. 
I need a little money to throw to the wolves.” 

“How m-much?” 

“ Four hundred dollars would do me.” 

Strong beckoned to him. 

“C-come to my goosepen,” said the hunter, 
as he led the way to an old basswood some fifty 
paces from the camp. He removed a piece of 
bark which fitted nicely over a hole in the tree- 
trunk. He put his hand in the hole which he 
called a goosepen and took out a roll of bills. 

“You save like a squirrel,” said Gordon. 

“Dunno no other w-way,” Strong answered 
as he began to count the money. Three hun- 
dred an’ s-seventy dollars,” he said, presently, 
and gave it to his brother-in-law. He felt in 
the hole again. “B-bank’s failed!” he added. 

The kindness of the woodland was in the face 
of the hunter. He was like an old hickory draw- 
ing its nourishment from the very bosom of the 
earth and freely giving its crop. Where he fed 
there was plenty, and he had no more thought 
of his own needs than a tree. 

’‘Thank you* It’s enough,” said Gordon. 
•* Better keep some of it.” 

“N-no good here,” Strong answered, with his 
old reliance on the bounty of nature. 

7o 


Silas Strong 

“I’ll go out to Pitkin in the morning. I’m 
going to get a new start in the world. If you’ll 
take care of the children I’ll send you some 
money every month. You’ve been a brother 
to me, and I’ll not forget.” 

The Emperor sat upon a log and took a pencil 
and an old memorandum-book from his pocket 
and wrote on a leaf this letter to Annette : 

“Deer frend — I am wel compny com today I 
dunno when I’ll see you. woods is hot and dry fish 
plenty Socks on feel splendid hopin for better times 
“ yours trewly 

“ S. Strong. 

“ P. S. — Strong’s ahed.” 

In truth, the whole purpose of the letter lay 
in that laconic postscript, expressing, as it did, 
a sense of moral triumph under great difficul- 
ties. 

The Emperor stripped a piece of bark off a 
birch-tree, trimmed it with his knife, and, en- 
folding it around the letter, bound it in the mid- 
dle with a long thorn which he drew out of the 
lapel of his “jacket.” He handed the missive to 
Gordon, saying, “F-for Ann Roice.” 

The children stood peering into an open door 
when the men came and flung down their packs. 

7i 


Silas Strong 

Sinth had gone to work in the garden, which 
was near the river-bank. Silas Strong entered 
his cabin. The children came to their father, 
who had seated himself on a chopping - block. 
Having forgotten the real Uncle Silas, they had 
been looking for that splendid creature of whom 
they had dreamed. 

“Father,” Socky whispered, “where is Uncle 
Silas?” 

“That was Uncle Silas,” said Gordon. 

The eyes of the children were fixed upon his, 
while their faces began to change color. The 
long, dark lashes of little Sue quivered for a 
second as if she had received a blow. Socky ’s 
glance fell; his trembling hands, which lay on 
the knee of Gordon, seemed to clutch at each 
other; then his right thumb stood up straight 
and stiff; his lips parted. One might have 
observed a little upward twitch of the muscles 
under either cheek. It signalized the first touch 
of bitter disappointment. 

“ That man?” he whispered, looking up doubt- 
fully as he pointed in the direction of the door 
into which Strong had disappeared. 

“That’s Uncle Silas,” said Gordon, with 
smiling amusement. 

Socky turned and spat upon the ground. 

72 


Silas Strong 

Slowly he walked away, scuffing his feet. Sue 
followed with a look of dejection. They went 
behind the camp and found the big potato-hole 
and crawled into it. The bottom was covered 
with dry leaves. They sat down, but neither 
spoke. Socky leaned forward, his chin upon his 
hands. 

“Do you like Uncle Silas?” Sue whispered. 

For a moment Socky did not change his atti- 
tude or make any reply. 

“I wouldn’t give him no twenty-five cents,” 
Sue added. 

“Don’t speak to me,” Socky answered, with 
a quick movement of his knee. 

It was a time of sad discovery — that pathetic 
day when the first castle of childhood falls upon 
its builder. 

“I’m going home,” said Sue. 

“ You won’t be let,” Socky answered, his under 
lip trembling as he thought of the old lumber- 
yard. 

Suddenly he lay over on the leaves, his fore- 
head on his elbow, and wept in silence. Sue lay 
beside him, her cheek partly covered by golden 
curls. She felt badly, but did not give way. 
They were both utterly weary and cast down. 
Sue lay on her back and drew out her tiny doll 

6 73 


Silas Strong 

much as a man would light a cigarette in his 
moment of abstraction. She flirted it in the air 
and brought it down upon her breast. The doll 
had come out of her pocket just in time to save 
her. She lay yawning a few moments, then 
fell asleep, and soon Socky joined her. 

Gordon lay down upon a bed in one of the 
cabins. He, too, was weary and soon forgot his 
troubles. The Emperor, having shifted his gar- 
ments, went behind the camp and stood looking 
down at his sorrowing people. A smile spread 
over his countenance. It came and passed like 
a billow of sunlight flooding over the hills. He 
shook his head with amusement. 

Soon he turned away and sauntered slowly 
towards the river -bank. These children had 
been flung, as it were, upon the ruin of his hopes. 
What should he do with them and with “Mis* 
Strong ’ ’ ? Suddenly a reflection of unusual mag- 
nitude broke from his lips. 

“They’s g-got t’ be tall contrivin’,’’ he whis- 
pered, with a sigh. 

Sinth, who had been sowing onions, heard him 
coming and rose to her feet. 

“G-Gordon!” said he, pointing towards camp. 

“Anybody with him?” she asked. 

“ The childern , 99 said he. “ G-goin’ t’ leave ’em . 99 

74 


Silas Strong 

Sinth turned with a look of alarm. 

“C-can’t swear, nuther,” Strong added. 

“He can take ’em back,” said Miss Strong, 
with flashing eyes and a flirt of her apron. 

“ R-roughlocks!” the Emperor demanded, in 
a low tone. 

“Who’ll tek care of ’em?” 

“M-me.” 

“Heavens!” she exclaimed, her voice full of 
despair. 

“C-come, Mis’ Strong.” So saying, Silas took 
the arm of his complaining sister and led her 
up the hill. 

When he had come to the potato-hole he 
pointed down at the children. They had 
dressed with scrupulous care for the eye of him 
who, not an hour since, had been the greatest 
of all men. The boy lay in his only wide, white 
collar and necktie, in his best coat and knee- 
breeches. The girl had on her beloved brown 
dress and pink sun-bonnet. It was a picture 
to fill one’s eyes, and all the more if one could 
have seen the hearts of those little people. A 
new look came into the face of Sinth. 

“Land sakes!” she exclaimed, raising one of 
her hands and letting it fall again; “she looks 
like Sister Thankful — don’t she, don't she, Silas ?” 

75 


Silas Strong 

Sinth wiped her eyes with her apron. The 
heart of Silas Strong had also been deeply 
touched. 

“R-reg’lar angel!” he exclaimed, thought- 
fully. After a moment of silence he added, 
“K-kind o’ like leetle f -fawns.” 

They turned away, proceeding to the cook- 
tent. Sinth looked as if she were making up 
her mind; Silas as if his were already made up. 
Sinth began to rattle the pots and pans. 

“Sh-h!” Silas hissed, as he fixed the fire. 

“What’s the matter?” she demanded. 

“W-wake ’em up.” 

“Hope I will,” she retorted, loudly. 

Strong strode off in the trail to Catamount 
Pond, where he was to get Master. 

Zeb, the bear-dog, had been digging at a fox- 
hole over in Birch Hollow. Growing weary and 
athirst, by -and -by he relinquished his enter- 
prise, crossed to the trail, and, discovering the 
scent of strangers, hurried home. Soon he 
found those curious little folks down in the 
potato - hole. He had never seen a child be- 
fore. He smelled them over cautiously. His 
opinion was extremely favorable. His tail be- 
gan to wag, and, unable to restrain his en- 
thusiasm, he expressed himself in a loud bark. 

76 


Silas Strong 

The children awoke, and Zeb retreated. Socky 
and Sue rose, the latter crying, while that little, 
yellow snip of a bear-dog, with cross-eye and 
curving tail, surveyed them anxiously. He 
backed away as if to coax them out of the hole. 
When they had come near he seemed to be 
wiping one foot after another upon the ground 
vigorously. As he did so he growled in a man- 
ner calculated to inspire respect. Then he ran 
around them in a wide circle at high speed, 
growling a playful challenge. Socky, who had 
some understanding of dogs, dashed upon Zeb, 
and soon they were all at play together. 


IX 

N Catamount Pond young Master 
had enjoyed a memorable day. 
He was an expert fisherman, but 
the lonely quiet of the scene had 
been more than fish to him. 
Along one side of it was a barren ridge, from 
the top of which a broken column of dead pine, 
like a shaft of wrought marble, towered straight 
and high above the woods. The curving shore 
had a fringe of lily-pads, starred here and there 
with white tufts. Around thickets of birch, 
on a point of land, a little cove was the end of 
all the deer - trails that came out of Jiminy 
Swamp. It was the gateway of the pond for 
all who journeyed thither to eat and drink. 
There were white columns on either side, and 
opposite the cove’s end was a thicket of tama- 
rack, clear of brush. A deep mat of vivid green 
moss came to the water’s edge. When one had 
rounded the point in his canoe, he could see 
into those cool, dark alleys of the deer, leading 
78 



Silas Strong 

off through slender tamaracks. A little beyond 
were the rock bastions of Painter Mountain, 
five hundred feet above the water. 

The young man, having grown weary of fish- 
ing, leaned back, lighted his pipe, and drifted. 
He could hear the chattering of a hedgehog up 
in the dry timber, and the scream of a hawk, 
like the whistle of some craft, leagues away on 
the sunlit deep of silence. A wild goose steer- 
ed straight across the heavens, far bound, his 
wings making a noise like the cleaving of water 
and the creak of full sails. He saw the man 
below him and flung a cry overboard. A great 
bee, driven out of a lily, threw his warning loop 
around the head of the intruder and boomed 
out of hearing. Those threads of sound seemed 
to bind the tongue of the youth, and to connect 
his soul with the great silence into which they 
ran. 

Robert Master had crossed that desert of un- 
certainty which lies between college and the 
beginning of a career. At last he had made his 
plan. He would try in his own simple way to 
serve his country. He was a man of “ the new 
spirit,” of pure ideals, of high patriotism. He 
had set out to try to make his way in politics. 

He had been one of the “big men,” dauntless 
79 


Silas Strong 

and powerful, who had saved the day for his 
alma mater more than once on the track and the 
gridiron. Handsome was a word which had 
been much applied to him. Hard work in the 
open air had given him a sturdy figure and 
added the glow of health and power to a face 
of unusual refinement. It was the face of a 
man with whom the capacity for stern trials 
had come by acquisition and not by inheritance. 
He had cheerful brown eyes and a smile of 
good - nature that made him beloved. His 
father was at the big camp, some twenty miles 
away, his mother and sister having gone abroad. 
He and his father were fond of their forest home ; 
the ladies found it a bore. They loved better 
the grand life and the great highways of travel. 

Master sat in the centre of his canoe; an el- 
bow rested on his paddle which lay athwart the 
gunwales. He drifted awhile. He had chosen 
his life work but not his life partner. He pict- 
ured to himself the girl he would love, had he 
ever the luck to find her. He had thrown off 
his hat, and his dark hair shone in the sunlight. 
Soon he pushed slowly down the pond. In a 
moment he stilled his paddle and sat looking 
into Birch Cove. Two fawns were playing in 
the edge of the water, while their dam, with the 
80 


Silas Strong 

dignity of a matron, stood on the shore looking 
down at them. The fawns gambolled in the 
shallows like a colt at play, now and then dash- 
ing their muzzles in the cool water. Their red 
coats were starred white as if with snow-flakes. 
The deer stood a moment looking at Master, 
stamped her feet, and retired into one of the 
dark alleys. In a moment her fawns followed. 

Turning, the fisherman beheld what gave him 
even greater surprise. In the shadow of the 
birches, on a side of the cove and scarcely 
thirty feet from his canoe, a girl sat looking at 
him. She wore a blue knit jacket and gray 
skirt. There was nothing on her head save its 
mass of light hair that fell curling on her 
shoulders. Her skin was brown as a berry, 
her features of a noble and delicate mould. 
Her eyes, blue and large, made their potent ap- 
peal to the heart of Master. They were like 
those of his dreams — he could never forget them. 
So far it’s the old story of love at sight— but 
listen. For half a moment they looked into 
each other’s eyes. Then the girl, as if she were 
afraid of him, rose and disappeared among the 
columns of white birch. 

Long he sat there wondering about this strange 
vision of girlhood, until he heard the halloo of 
81 


Silas Strong 

Silas Strong. Turning his canoe, he pushed for 
the landing. 

“L-lucky?” Strong asked. 

“Twenty fish, and I saw the most beautiful 
woman in the world.” 

“Where?” 

“Sitting on the shore of Birch Cove. Any 
camp near?” 

The Emperor shook his head thoughtfully as 
he lighted his pipe. The two made their way 
up the trail. 

“W- wonder if it’s her?” Strong whispered to 
himself as he walked along. 

After supper that evening Silas Strong gath- 
ered a heap of wood for a bonfire — a way he 
had of celebrating arrivals at Lost River camp. 
Soon he was running upon hands and knees in 
the firelight, with Socky and Sue on his back. 

“Silas Strong!” was the scornful exclamation 
of Sinth, as she took a seat by the fire. 

“P-present!” he answered, as he went on, the 
children laughing merrily. 

' ‘ Be you a man or a fool ?” 

“ Both,” he answered, ceasing his harlequinade. 

Sinth began her knitting, wearing a look of 
injury. “ Plumb crazy ’bout them air chib 
dern!” she exclaimed. 


82 


Silas Strong 

The “Emperor of the Woods” sat on a log, 
breathing heavily, with Sue and Socky upon 
his knees. 

“B-bears plenty, Mis’ Strong,” was the gen- 
tle reply of Silas. 

“ Mis’ Strong 1” said she, as if insulted. “ What 
ye Mis’ Strongin’ me for?” 

When others were present she was wont to 
fling back upon him this burning query. Now 
it seemed to stimulate him to a rather unusual 
effort. 

“S-some folks b-better when ye miss ’em,” 
he suggested, with a smile of good-nature. 

Miss Strong gathered up her knitting and 
promptly retired from the scene. Sue and 
Socky lay back on the lap of their Uncle Silas 
looking into the fire. They now saw in him 
great possibilities. Socky, in particular, had 
begun to regard him as likely to be useful if not 
highly magnificent. 

Sue lay back and began to make a drowsy 
display of her learning: 

“ Intry, mintry, cutry corn, 

Apple-seed an’ apple-thorn, 

Wire, brier, limber lock, 

• Twelve geese all in a white flock; 

Some fly east an’ some fly west 
An’ some fly over the cuckoo's nest.” 

83 


Silas Strong 

Miss Strong returned shortly and found the 
children asleep on the knees of their uncle. In a 
moment Silas turned his ear and listened. 

“Hark!” he whispered. 

They could hear some one approaching on 
the dark trail. A man oddly picturesque, with 
a rifle on his shoulder, strode into the firelight. 
He wore knee-breeches and a coat of buckskin. 
He had a rugged face, a sturdy figure, and was, 
one would have guessed, some sixty years of 
age. 

A fringe of thin, white hair showed below his 
cap. He had a white mustache, through which 
a forgotten cigar protruded. His black eyes 
glowed in the firelight beneath silvered brows. 
He nodded as they greeted him. His ruddy face 
wrinkled thoughtfully as he turned to Gordon. 

“It’s a long time,” said he, offering his hand. 

“Some years,” Gordon answered, as he took 
the hand of Dunmore. 

“W-welcome!” said Silas Strong. 

“Boneka!” Dunmore exclaimed, gruffly, but 
with a faint smile. For years it had been his 
customary word of greeting. 

“The Emperor and his court!” he went on, as 
he looked about him. “Who are these ?* He 
surveyed the sleeping children. 

84 


Silas Strong 

“The Duke and Duchess of Hillsborough — • 
nephew and niece of the Emperor/’ Master an- 
swered, giving them titles which clung to Socky 
and Sue for a twelvemonth. 

“The first children I’ve ever seen in the 
woods except my own,” said the white-haired 
man. 

Zeb ran around the chair of the Emperor, 
growling and leaping playfully at Socky and 
Sue. 

“The court jester!” said Dunmore, looking 
down at the dog. 

He stood a moment with his back to the blaz- 
ing logs. 

Then he went to the chair of the Emperor, 
and put his hand under the chin of little Sue 
and looked into her face. In half a moment he 
took her in his arms and sat down by the fire- 
side. The child was yawning wearily. 

“Heigh-ho!” he exclaimed; “let’s away to the 
Isles of Rest.” 

He rocked back and forth as he held her 
against his breast and sang this lullaby: 

“Jack Tot was as big as a baby’s thumb, 

And his belly could hold but a drop and a crumb, 
And a wee little sailor was he — Heigh-ho! 

A very fine sailor was he. 

85 


Silas Strong 

•* He made his boat of a cocoa-nut shell, 

He sails her at night and he steers her well 

With the wing of a bumble-bee — Heigh-ho? 
With the wing of a bumble-bee. 

** She is rigged with the hair of a lady’s curl, 

And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl, 

And it never goes out in a gale — Heigh-ho! 
It never goes out in a gale. 

** Her mast is made of a very long thorn, 

She calls her crew with a cricket’s horn, 

And a spider spun her sail — Heigh-ho! 

A spider he spun her sail. 

“ She carries a cargo of baby souls, 

And she crosses the terrible nightmare shoals 

On her way to the Isles of Rest — Heigh-ho! 
We’re off for the Isles of Rest. 

“ And often they smile as the good ship sails — 

Then the skipper is telling incredible tales 
With many a merry jest — Heigh-ho! 

He’s fond of a merry jest. 

“ When the little folks yawn they are ready to go, 
And Jack Tot is lifting his sail — Hee-ho ! 

In the swell how the little folks nod — He-ho ! 
Just see how the little folks nod. 

“ And some have sailed off when the sky was black, 
And the poor little sailors have never come back, 
But have steered for the City of God — Heigh-ho ! 
The beautiful City of God!” 

86 


Silas Strong 

The white-haired man closed his eyes and his 
voice sank low, and the last words fell softly in 
a solemn silence that lasted for a long moment 
after the lullaby was finished. Presently Sinth 
came to take the sleeping child. 

“These little folks will take our peace away 
from us,” said he, in a warning tone. 

“Why?” 

“The call of the sown land is in their voices,” 
said he. “They give me sad thoughts.” 

Sinth smiled and introduced the young man 
to Dunmore. 

“Bonekal” said the latter as they shook 
hands. 

The curiosity of Master was aroused by the 
strange greeting. He smiled, and answered, 
modestly, “I don’t understand you.” 

The stranger sat silent, gazing into the fire, 
until Silas, who was evidently in the secret, said 
to his guest, “Tell ’em.” 

“There was once a very wise and honored 
chief,” began Dunmore, after a pause, and look- 
ing into the eyes of the young man. “ Long be- 
fore the lumber hunter had begun to shear the 
hills, he dwelt among them, with his good people. 
He was a great law-giver, and his law was all in 
two words — ‘ Be kind. ’ Kindness begat kindness, 
87 


Silas Strong 

and peace reigned, to be broken only by some 
far-come invader. But as time went on quarrels 
arose and the law was forgotten. Thereupon 
the chief invited a great council and organized 
the Society of the Magic Word. Every member 
promised that whenever the greeting ‘Boneka’ 
were given him, he would smile and bow and 
answer, ‘ Ranokoli. ’ The greeting meant ‘ Peace, ’ 
and the answer, ‘I forgive.’ 

“Then, one by one, the law-giver called his 
councillors before him, and to each he said: 
‘The Great Spirit is in this greeting. I defy 
you to hear it and keep a sober face.’ 

“Then he said ‘Boneka,’ and the man would 
try to resist the influence of the spirit, but soon 
smiled in spite of himself, amid the laughter 
of the tribe, and said ‘Ranokoli.’ Thereafter, 
when a quarrel arose between two people, an out- 
sider, approaching, would greet them with, the 
magic word, and immediately they would bow 
and smile, and answer, ‘I forgive.’ But, nev- 
ertheless, if one had wronged another he was 
justly punished by the chief. So it was that a 
great ruler made an end of quarrels among his 
people.” 

“A grand idea!” said young Master. “Let’s 
all join that society.” 


88 


Silas Strong 

“Those in favor of the suggestion will please 
say ay.” It was Dunmore who put the ques- 
tion, and, after a vote in its favor, dictated the 
pledge, as follows : 

‘ ‘ For value received from my Loving Father, I prom- 
ise to give to any of His children, on demand, a smile 
and full forgiveness.” 

All signed it, and so half in play the old So- 
ciety of the Magic Word was revived at Lost 
River camp. 

The white-haired man rose and walked to the 
trail and turned suddenly. 

“ Strong,” said he, “I’m leaving the woods for 
a week. If they need your help at home they’ll 
send word to you.” 

With that he disappeared in the dark trail. 

The three other men still sat by the camp-fire. 

“Who is Dunmore?” Master inquired, turning 
to Gordon. 

The latter lighted his pipe and began the 
story. 

“An odd man who’s spent the most of his life 
in the woods,” said Gordon. “Came in here for 
his health long ago from I don’t know where; 
grew strong, and has always stuck to the woods. 
Had to work, like the rest of us, when I knew 
89 


7 


Silas Strong 

him. Thirty years ago he began work in this 
part of the country as a boom rat — so they tell 
me. It was on a big drive way down the Os- 
wegatchie. Before we bought the Bear Moun- 
tain and Lost River tracts we were looking for a 
good cruiser — some one to go through here and 
estimate the timber for us. Well, Dunmore was 
recommended for the job, and we hired him. 
He and I travelled over some thirty thousand 
acres, camping wherever night overtook us. It 
did not take me long to discover that he was a 
gifted man. Many an evening, as we sat by 
our lonely fire in the woods, I have wept and 
laughed over his poems.’ ’ 

‘‘Poems!” Master exclaimed. 

“That’s the only word for it,” Gordon went- 
on. “The man is a woods lover and a poet. 
One night he told me part of his life story. Sile, 
you remember when the old iron company shut 
down their works at Tifton. Well, everybody 
left the place except Tom Muir, the postmaster. 
He was a widower, and lived with one child — a 
girl about nineteen years old when the forest 
village died. Dunmore married that girl. He 
told me how beautiful she was and how he 
loved her. Well, they didn’t get along together. 
He was fond of the woods and she was not. 

90 


Silas Strong 

For five years they lived together in the edge of 
the wilderness. Then she left him. Well — poor 
woman! — it was a lonely life, and some tourist 
fell in love with her, they tell me. I don’t 
know about that. Anyhow, Dunmore was terri- 
bly embittered. A little daughter had been born 
to them. She was then three years of age.” 

“She’s the angel y-you met to-day over by 
the p-pond,” Strong put in, looking at Master. 

Gordon lighted his pipe and went on with his 
story. 

“ Dunmore said that a relative had left him a 
little money. I remember we were camping 
that night on the shore of Buckhorn. Its beauty 
appealed to him. He said he’d like to buy that 
section and build him a camp on the pond and 
spend the rest of his life there. 

“‘But,’ said I, ‘you couldn’t bring up your 
daughter in the woods.’ Buckhorn was then 
thirty miles from anywhere. 

“‘That’s just what I wish to do,’ he answer- 
ed. ‘ The world is so full of d d spaniels ’ — I 

remember that was the phrase he used — ‘and 
there’s so much infamy among men, I’d rather 
keep her out of it. I want her to be as pure at 
twenty as she is now. I can teach her all I 
wish her to know.’ 


9i 


Silas Strong 

“Well, I sold him the Buckhorn tract. He 
built his camp, and moved there with the little 
girl and his mother — a woman of poor health 
and well past middle age. He brought an old 
colored man and his wife to be their servants, 
and there they are to-day — Dunmore and his 
mother and the girl and the two servants, now 
grown rather aged, they tell me.” 

“They have never left the woods?” said Mas- 
ter, as if it were too incredible. 

“ Dunmore goes to New York, but not oftener 
than once a year,” Gordon went on. “He has 
property — a good deal of property, I suppose, 
and has to give it some attention. The others 
have never left the woods.” 

“ Sends home b-big boxes, an’ I t-tote ’em in,” 
Silas explained. 

“Do you mean to tell me that Dunmore ’s 
daughter has never seen the clearing since she 
was a baby?” 

Strong’s interest was thoroughly aroused. 
He took off his coat and laid it down carefully, 
as if he were about to go in swimming. He 
was wont to do this when his thoughts demand- 
ed free and full expression. 

“ B-been t’ Tillbury post-office w-with the ol’ 
man — n-no further,” Strong explained. “Dun- 
92 


Silas Strong 

more says she ’ain’t never s-seen a child ’cept 
one. That was a b-baby. Some man an’ his 
w-wife come through here w-with it from the 
n-north th-three year ago.” 

‘‘Fact is, I think he feared for a long time 
that his wife would try to get possession of the 
child,” said Gordon. “Late years, I under- 
stand, the girl has had to take care of the old 
lady. In a letter to me once Dunmore referred 
to his daughter as the ‘little nun of the green 
veil,’ and spoke of her devotion to her grand- 
mother.” 

Gordon rose and went to his bed in one of the 
cabins. Strong and the young man kept their 
seats at the camp-fire, talking of Dunmore and 
his daughter and their life in the woods. The 
Emperor, who felt for this lonely child qf the 
forest, talked from a sense of duty. . 

“S-sail in,” he presently said. “S-sail in an’ 
t-tame her.” 

“ I don’t know how to begin.” 

“She’ll be there t-to-morrer sure,” Strong de- 
clared. 

“So shall I,” said the young man. 

“C-cal’late she’s w-wownded, too,” Strong 
suggested. “ B-be careful. She’s like a w-wild 
deer.” 


93 


Silas Strong 

They were leaving the fire on their way to bed. 
The young man stopped and repeated the words 
incredulously — “Like a wild deer!” 

“T-take the ch-childern with ye,” Strong ad- 
vised. “She’ll w-want t’ look ’em over.” 


X 


OCKY woke early next morning, 
and lay looking up at the antlers, 
guns, and rifles which adorned the 
wall. On a table near him were 
some of the treasures of that 
sylvan household — a little book entitled 1 Me- 
linda, a dingy Testament, a plush-covered pho- 
tograph-album, and a stuffed bird on a wire 
bough. 

Sinth and the album were inseparable. She 
sometimes left the dingy Testament or the little 
book entitled Melinda at her Pitkin home, but 
not the plush-covered album. That was the 
one link which connected her, not only with the 
past, but with a degree of respectability, and 
even with a vague hope of paradise. What a 
pantheon of family deities! What a museum 
of hair and whiskers! What a study of the 
effect of terror, headache, rheumatism, weari- 
ness, Sunday apparel, tight boots, and reckless 
photography upon the human countenance ! 

95 



Silas Strong 

Therein were the face of Sinth, indescribably 
gnarled by the lens; a daguerreotype of her 
grandmother adorned with lace and tokens of a 
more cheerful time in the family history; faces 
and forms which for Sinth recalled her play- 
days, and were gone as hopelessly. 

Just after supper the night before, Socky 
had seen his uncle apply grease to a number of 
boots and guns. The boy had been permitted 
to put his hands in the thick oil of the bear, and, 
while its odor irked him a little, it had, as it 
were, reduced the friction on his bearings. Since 
then the gear of his imagination had seemed to 
work easier, and had carried him far towards the 
goal of manhood. 

Immediately after waking he found the bot- 
tle of bearis-oil and poured some on his own 
boots and rubbed it in. He was now delighted 
with the look of them. It was wonderful stuff, 
that bear’s-oil. It made everything look shiny 
and cheerful, and gave one a grateful sense of 
high accomplishment. 

Soon he had greased the bird and tne bush, 
and the oil had dripped on the album and the 
dingy Testament and the little book entitled 
Melinda, Then he greased the feet and legs 
of Zeb, who lay asleep in a corner, and who 
96 


Silas Strong 

promptly awoke and ran across the floor and 
leaped through an open window, and hid him- 
self under a boat, as if for proper consideration 
of ways and means. In a few moments Socky 
had greased the shoes of his sister, and a ramrod 
which lay on the window-sill, and taken the lat- 
ter into bed with him. 

Soon he began to miss the good Aunt Marie, 
for, generally, when he first awoke he had gone 
and got into bed with her. He held to the 
ramrod and sustained himself with manly re- 
flections, whispering as they came to mind: 
“I’m going to be a man. I ain’t no cry-baby. 
I’m going to kill bears and send the money to 
my father, an’ my Uncle Silas will give me a 
rocking-horse an’ a silver dofunny — he said he 
would.” 

He ceased to whisper. An imaginary bear 
had approached the foot of the bed just in 
time to save him, for the last of his reflections 
had been interrupted by little sobs. He struck 
bravely with the ramrod and felled the bear, and 
got out of bed and skinned him and hung his 
hide over the back of a chair. He found some 
potatoes in a sack beside the fireplace, and put 
down a row for the bear’s body and some more 
for the feet and legs. Then he greased the 
97 


Silas Strong 

bear’s feet and got into bed again, for Sue had 
awoke and begun to cry. 

“What’s the matter?” he inquired. 

“I want my Aunt Marie,” the girl sobbed. 

“Stop, Uncle Silas ’ll hear you,” said Socky. 

“I don’t care.” 

“I’d be ’shamed,” the boy answered, his own 
voice trembling with suppressed emotion. 

Since a talk he had had with his father the 
day before, he felt a large and expanding sense 
of responsibility for his sister. Just now an 
idea occurred to him — why shouldn’t he, in his 
own person, supply the deficiencies of the great 
man they had come to see? 

“ I’ll be your Uncle Silas,” he remarked. “I’m 
a man now, an’ I’ve killed a bear.” 

“Where is he?” 

“Dead on the floor there.” 

She covered her face with the blankets. 

“I’m going to have a pair o’ moccasins an’ a 
rifle, an’ I’ll carry you on my b-back.” He had 
stammered on the last word after the manner of 
his uncle. 

Just then they heard a singular creaking out- 
side the door, and before either had time to 
speak it was flung open. They were both sit- 
ting up in bed as their Uncle Silas entered. 

98 


Silas Strong 

“I tnum!” said he, cheerfully. 

Suddenly he saw the bird and the books and 
the table-top and the potatoes and the ramrod 
and the hands of Socky. He whistled ruefully; 
his smile faded. 

“W-well greased!” he said, looking down at 
the books and the bird. 

He found a gun-rag and wiped up the oil as 
best he could. 

“She’ll r-raise — ” The remark ended in a 
cough as he wiped the books. Then he covered 
them with an empty meal-bag. 

The children began to dress while Strong went 
half-way up the ladder and called to Gordon, 
still asleep in the loft above. Then he sat on 
the bed and helped the boy and girl get their 
clothes buttoned. 

“My little f-fawns!” he muttered, with a 
laugh. 

He had sat up until one o’clock at work in 
his little shop by the light of a lantern. He had 
sawed some disks from a round beech log and 
bored holes in them. He had also made axles 
and a reach and tongue, and put them together. 
Then he had placed a cross-bar and a pivot on 
the front axle and fastened a starch-box over 
all. The result was a wagon, which he had 
99 


Silas Strong 

arisen early to finish, and with which he had 
come to wake “the little fawns.” Now, when 
they were dressed, he sat them side by side in 
the wagon-box and clattered off down the trail. 

At first the children sat silent, oppressed as 
they were by the odor of bear’s-oil, not yet en- 
tirely removed from their hands and faces. As 
the wagon proceeded they began to laugh and 
call the dog. Zeb peered from under the friend- 
ly cover of the boat, and gave a yearning bark 
which seemed to express regret, not wholly un- 
mingled with accusation, that on account of 
other engagements he would be unable to ac- 
cept their kind invitation. At the boat-house 
were soap and towel and glad deliverance from 
the flavor of the bear. On their return “Mis’ 
Strong” met them at the door of the cook-tent. 
She raised both hands above her head. 

“My album!” she gasped. 

“T-y-ty!” the Emperor whispered. 

“An’ the book my mother gave me!” she ex- 
claimed, her tone rising from despair to anger. 
“They’re ruined — Silas Strong!” 

“ N-nonsense,” said her brother, calmly. 

“ Nonsense!” she exclaimed, tauntingly. “ Silas 
Strong, do you know what has been done to 
’em?” 


IOO 


Silas Strong 

“G-greased,” he answered, mildly. “ D-do 
’em good.” 

She ran into the cook-tent and returned with 
the sacred album. There was an odd menace 
in her figure as she displayed the book. She 
spread it open. 

“Look at my grandfather!” she demanded. 

The bear’s-oil had added emphasis to a subtle, 
inherent suggestion of smothered profanity in 
the image of her ancestor. It had, as it were, 
given clearness to an expression of great physi- 
cal discomfort. 

“L-limber him up,” said the Emperor, quite 
soberly. 

Master and Gordon were now approaching. 
The former took off his hat and bowed to the in- 
dignant Sinth and blandly remarked, “ Boneka, 
madam.” 

The men had begun to laugh. Sinth changed 
color. She looked down. A smile began to 
light her thin face. The faces of the children 
added an appeal far stronger than the magic 
word. She walked hurriedly through the cook- 
tent to her own quarters, and sat down and 
wept as if, in truth, the oil had entered her 
soul. It was, in a way, pathetic — her devotion 
to the tawdry plush and this poor shadow of 

IOI 


Silas Strong 

her ancestor — and the historian has a respect 
for it more profound, possibly, than his words 
may indicate. She would have given her album 
for her friend, and it may be questioned if any 
man hath greater love than this. 

When she entered the dinner -tent and sat 
down to stir batter for the excellent ‘‘flapjacks ” 
of Lost River camp, the children came and 
kissed her and stood looking up into her face. 
Socky had begun to comprehend his relation 
to the trouble. Shame, guilt, and uncertainty 
were in his countenance. Urgent queries touch- 
ing the use and taste and constitution of batter 
and its feeling on the index-finger of one’s hand 
were pressing upon him, but he saw that, in 
common decency, they must be deferred. 

“Aunt Sinthy,” said the little Duke of Hills- 
borough. 

“What?” she answered. 

“I won’t never grease your album again.” 

The woman laughed, placed the pan on the 
table, and put her arms around the child. Then 
she answered, in a tone of good-nature, “If it 
had been anything else in this world, I wouldn’t 
have minded.” 

Just then Zeb slowly entered the cook-tent. 
He had got rid of some of the oil, but had ac- 


102 


Silas Strong 

quired a cough. The hair on every leg was 
damp and matted. He seemed to doubt his 
fitness for social enjoyment. In a tentative 
manner he surveyed the breakfast-party, as if 
to study his effect upon the human species. 
The Emperor patted him and felt of his legs. 

“What’s the matter o’ him?” Sinth inquired. 

“G-greased!” said the Emperor, with a loud 
laugh, in which the campers joined, whereat the 
dog fled from the cook-tent. 

“ S-slippery mornin’ !” Strong exclaimed, while 
he stood looking through the doorway. 

“Hard t’ keep yer feet,” said Sinth, who had 
caught the contagion of good feeling which had 
begun to prevail. It was, indeed, a remark not 
without some spiritual significance. 

So it befell : the spirit of that old chief whose 
body had long been given to the wooded hills 
came into Lost River camp. 

Gordon hurried away after breakfast. While 
the children stood looking down the trail and 
waving their hands and weeping, Silas Strong 
ran past them two or three times with the 
noisy little wagon. Its consoling clatter silenced 
them. There had been a deep purpose in the 
heart of the Emperor while he spent half the 
night in his workshop. Gordon had laughingly 
103 


Silas Strong 

explained the cause of their disappointment on 
arriving at Lost River camp. Strong was try- 
ing to recover their esteem. 

“C-come on!” he shouted. 

Soon Socky and Sue sat in the little wagon 
on their way to Catamount Pond with their 
Uncle Silas and the young fisherman. 


XI 

HE sky was clear, and the rays 
of the sun fell hot upon the dry 
woods that morning when Master 
and the children and their Uncle 
Silas reached the landing at Cata- 
mount. Its eastern shore lay deep under cool 
shadows. The water plane was like taut can- 
vas on which a glowing picture of wooded shore 
and sky and mountain had been painted. Gold- 
en robins darted across a cove and sang in the 
tree- tops. 

Master righted his canoe and put the children 
aboard and took his place in the stern-seat. 

“ I’ll slip over to R-Robin,” said the Emperor 
as he shoved the canoe into deep water. With 
him to “slip” meant to go, and in his speech he 
always “slipped” from one point to another. 

Master pushed through the pads and slowly 
cut the still shadow. The inverted towers of 
Painter Mountain began to quake beneath his 
canoe. Sue sat in the bow and Socky behind 
ioq 



8 


Silas Strong 

her. The curly hair of the girl, which had, in- 
deed, the silken yellow of a corn-tassel, showed 
beneath her little pink bonnet. Something 
about her suggested the rose half open. Socky 
wore his rabato and necktie and best suit of 
clothes. They were both in purple and fine 
linen, so to speak — no one had thought to tell 
them better. 

As they came near the point of Birch Cove, 
Master began to turn the bow and check his 
headway. There, on a moss-covered rock, stood 
the maiden whom he had seen the day before. 
A crow with a small scarlet ribbon about his 
neck clung upon her shoulder. The girl was 
looking at the two children. The bird rose on 
his wings and, after a moment of hesitation, 
flew towards them, the ends of the scarlet ribbon 
fluttering in the air. Socky drew back as the 
crow lighted on a gunwale near his side. Sue 
clung to the painter and sat looking backward 
with curiosity and fear in her face. The crow 
turned his head, surveying them as if he were, 
indeed, quite overcome with amazement. 

“Sit still,” said Master, quietly. “He won’t 
hurt you.” 

The bird rose in the air again, and, darting 
downward, seized a shiny buckle above the 
106 


Silas Strong 

visor of the boy’s cap, which lay on the canoe 
bottom, and bore cap and all to his young mis- 
tress. Socky began to cry with alarm. 

Master reassured him and paddled slowly 
towards the moss-covered rock. Silently his 
bow touched the shore. He stuck his paddle in 
the sand. He stepped into the shallow water 
and helped the children ashore. In the edge of 
the tamaracks and now partly hidden by their 
foliage, Miss Dunmore stood looking at the 
children. Her figure was tall, erect, and oddly 
picturesque. Somehow she reminded Master of 
a deer halted in its flight by curiosity. Her face, 
charming in form and expression, betrayed a 
childish timidity and innocence. Her large, 
blue eyes were full of wonder. Pretty symbols 
of girlish vanity adorned her figure. There were 
fresh violets on her bodice, and a delicate, lacy 
length of the moss-vine woven among her curls. 
The girl’s hair, wonderfully full and rich in color, 
had streaks of gold in it. A beaded belt and 
holster of Indian make held a small pistol. 

“Miss Dunmore, I believe?” he ventured. 

The girl retired a step or two and stood look- 
ing timidly, first at him and then at the chil- 
dren. Her manner betrayed excitement. She 
addressed him with hesitation. “ My — my name 
107 


Silas Strong 

is Edith Dunmore,” she said, in a tone just 
above a whisper. With trembling hands she 
picked a spray of tamarack that for a moment 
obscured her face. 

'‘You are the nun of the green veil. I have 
heard of you,” said Master. 

“I — I must not speak to you, sir,” she said, 
as she retreated a little farther. 

“My name is Master — Robert Master,” said 
he. “I shall stay only a minute, but these chil- 
dren would like to know you.” While speaking 
he had returned to his canoe. Socky and Sue 
stood still, looking up at the maiden. 

“Children!” she exclaimed, in a low, sweet, 
tremulous tone, as she took a step towards them. 
“The wonderful little children?” 

“Sometimes I think they are brownies,” he 
answered, with a smile of amusement. “ But 
their uncle calls them little fawns.” 

Her right hand, which held the spray of tam- 
arack, fell to her side; her left hand clung to a 
branch on which the crow sat a little above her 
shoulder, and her cheek lay upon her arm as she 
looked down wistfully, fondly, at the children. 
Her blue eyes were full of curiosity. 

Socky and Sue regarded the beautiful maiden 
with a longing akin to that in her. In all there 
108 


Silas Strong 

was a deep, mysterious desire which had grown 
out of nature’s need — in them for a mother, in 
her for the endearing touch of those newly come 
into the world and for their high companionship. 
Moreover, these two little ones, who had now a 
dim and imperfect recollection of' their mother, 
had shaped an ideal — partly through the help of 
Gordon — to take its place. Therein they saw a 
lady, young and beautiful and more like this one 
who stood before them than like any they had 
yet beheld. Sue grasped the hand of her brother, 
and both stood gazing at the maiden, but neither 
spoke nor moved for a moment. Edith Dun- 
more leaned forward a little, looking into their 
faces. 

“Can you not speak to me?” she asked. 

Socky began to be embarrassed ; his eyes fell ; 
he shook his head doubtfully. 

Edith Dunmore looked up at the stalwart 
figure of the young man. Their eyes met. She 
quickly turned away. The tame crow, on the 
bough above, began to laugh and chatter as if 
he thought it all an excellent joke. 

“May — I — take them in my arms?” she ask- 
ed, with hesitation. 

“Yes; but I warn you — they have a way of 
stealing one’s heart.” 


109 


Silas Strong 

“ Ah-h-h-h-h!” croaked the little crow, in a 
warning cry, as if he had seen at once the peril 
of it. 

She had begun to move slowly, almost timidly, 
towards the children. She knelt before them 
and took the little hand of Sue in hers and 
looked upon it with wonder. She touched it 
with her lips; she pressed it against her cheek; 
she trembled beneath its power. The touch of 
the child’s hand was, for her, it would almost 
seem, like that of One on the eyes of Bartimeus. 
Suddenly, as by a miracle, Edith Dunmore rose 
out of childhood. The veil of the nun was rent 
away. She was a woman fast coming into riches 
of unsuspected inheritance. She put her arms 
about the two and gently drew them towards 
her and held them close. ' Her embrace and the 
touch of her breast upon theirs were grateful 
to them, and they kissed her. Her eyes were 
wet, her sweet voice full of familiar but un- 
comprehended longing when she said, “Dear 
little children!” 

“ Tut, tut!” said the tame crow, who had crept 
to the end of his branch, where he stood look- 
ing down at them. In a moment he began to 
break the green twigs and let them fall on the 
head of his mistress. 


no 


Silas Strong 

Sue felt the hair and looked into the face and 
eyes of the maiden with wondering curiosity. 
Socky ran his fingers over the beaded belt. 
Both had a suspicion which they dared not ex- 
press that here was an angel in some way re- 
lated to their mother. 

“You are a beautiful lady,” said the boy, 
with childish frankness. 

Master has often tried to describe the scene. 
He confesses that words, even though vivid and 
well spoken, cannot make one to understand 
the something which lay beneath all said and 
done, and which went to his heart so that for a 
time he turned and walked away from them. 

“Do you remember when you were fairies?” 
the girl asked of the children. 

The latter shook their heads. 

“Tell us about the fairies,” Sue proposed, 
timidly. 

“They are old, old people — so my father has 
told me,” said the beautiful lady. “They came 
into this world thousands of years ago riding 
in a great cloud that was drawn by wild geese. 
The fairies came down, each on a big flake of 
snow, and got off in the tree -tops and never 
went away. At first they were the teentiest 
folks — so little that a hundred of them could 


hi 


Silas Strong 

stand on a maple leaf — and very, very old. My 
father says they were never young in their lives, 
and I guess they have always lived. They rode 
around on the backs of the birds and saw every- 
thing ifi the world and had such a good time 
they all began to grow young. Now, as they 
grew young they grew bigger and bigger, and 
every spring a lot more of the little old people 
came out of the sky and began to grow young 
like the others. And by-and-by some of them 
were as big as your thumb and bigger.” 

“ How big do they grow?” the boy asked. 

“ As they grow young they keep growing big- 
ger. By-and-by the birds cannot carry them. 
Then they have to walk, and for the first time 
in their lives they begin to get hungry and learn 
to cry and nobody knows what is the matter with 
them. The fairies complain about the noise 
they make, and one night a little old woman 
takes them down into the woods to get them 
out of the way. And violets grow wherever 
their feet touch the ground, and they sit in a 
huckleberry bush and make a noise like the cry 
of a spotted fawn. The fawns hear them and 
know very well what they are crying for. The 
fawns have always loved them. When the 
fairies come down out of the tree-tops they 
1 1 2 


Silas Strong 

always ride on the fawns, and where they have 
sat you can see a little white spot about as big as 
a flake of snow. That’s why the fawns are 
spotted, and you know how shy they are — they 
mustn’t let anybody see the fairies. Well, the 
young ones sit there in a huckleberry bush 
crying. The little animals come and lick their 
faces and tell them of a wonderful spring where 
milk flows out of a little hill and has a magic 
power in it, for even if one were crying and 
tasted the milk he always became happy. The 
young fairies climb on the backs of the fawns 
and ride away. By-and-by the fawns come 
to their mothers and their mothers tell them 
that no one who has teeth in his head can 
drink at the spring. So they wonder what to 
do. By-and-by they go to the woodpecker, for 
he has a pair of forceps and can pull anything, 
and the woodpecker pulls their teeth. Then 
the young fairies do nothing but ride around — 
each on a spotted fawn — and drink at the won- 
derful spring and grow fat and lazy, and the 
birds pull every hair out of their heads to build 
nests with. They live down in the woods, for 
they cannot climb the trees any more, and one 
day they fall asleep for the first time and tumble 
off the fawns and lie on the ground dreaming. 

113 


Silas Strong 

They dream of the fairy-heaven where they shall 
grow old again and each shall have a mother 
and his own wonderful spring of milk. Now that 
day trees begin to grow in the ground beneath 
them. The trees grow fast, and all in a night 
they lift the sleeping fairies far above the 
ground. The wind rocks them and they lie 
dreaming in the tree-tops until a crane, as he is 
crossing over the sky, looks down and sees them 
and goes and takes them away. You know the 
cranes have to go through the sky every day 
and pick up the young fairies. ” 

She paused and sat holding the hands of little 
Sue and looking at them as if their beauty were 
a great wonder. 

“Where do they take them?’ , 

Master was returning, and the girl rose like one 
afraid and whispered to the children, “ I will tell 
you if — if you will come again.” 

“I shall ask your father if I may come and 
see you,” said Master as he came near. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” the bird croaked, fluttering in 
the air and lighting on the shoulder of his mis- 
tress. 

The children stepped aside quickly, as if in 
fear of it. 

She took the crow on her finger and held him 
114 


Silas Strong 

at arm’s-length. He turned and tried to catch 
an end of the scarlet ribbon. She was a picture 
then to remind one of the days of falconry. She 
ran a few paces up a green aisle in the thicket. 
She stopped where the young man was unable 
to see her. 

“Could — could you bring the children again, 
sir?” she asked. 

“On Thursday, at the same hour,” he an- 
swered. 

He heard again the warning of the little crow 
and her footsteps growing fainter in the dark 
trail of the deer. 


XII 

ASTER paddled slowly to the land- 
ing where he had left Strong, and 
gathered lilies while they waited. 
He pushed up to the shore as soon 
as the Emperor had arrived. 
“Sp’ilt,” said the latter, pointing in the di- 
rection of Robin Lake. 

“You mean that we cannot use the camp 
over there?” 

“Ay-ah,” Strong almost whispered, with a 
face in which perspiration was mingled with 
regret and geniality. 

“S-see *er ?” 

“ Yes, ” Master answered. “ The children were 
a great help. She fell in love with them. We 
are to meet her again Thursday.” 

“Uh-huh!” Strong exclaimed, in a tone which 
seemed to say, “I told you so.” 

“ S-sociable?” he inquired, after a little pause. 

“No, but interested.” 

“Uh-huh, says I!” the Emperor exclaimed 
116 



Silas Strong 

again, with playful conceit. When he was in 
the mood of self-congratulation he had an odd 
way of bringing out those two words — “says I.” 

“ She was afraid of me. I backed away and 
said very little,” Master explained. 

“Th-they’ll t-tame her,” the Emperor assured 
him. 

“She has a wonderful crow with her,” said 
the young man. 

“Her g-guide,” Strong explained. “Alwus 
knows the n-nighest way home.” 

“ If you’ll help me, I’ll make my camp here,” 
said Master. 

“Ay-ah,” the Emperor answered. 

His manner and his odd remark were full of 
approval and almost affectionate admiration. In 
half a moment his tongue lazily added, “ L-lean 
her ’gin th-that air rock.” In his conversation 
he conferred the feminine gender upon all in- 
animate things — a kind of compliment to the 
sex he revered so highly. 

“How long will it take?” 

“Day,” said Strong, surveying the ground. 

“I have to speak in Hillsborough on the 
Fourth. Suppose we tackle it on my return?” 

Strong agreed, and while he and the children 
set out for camp Master remained to fish. 

117 


Silas Strong 

Two “sports” had arrived in the absence of 
the Emperor and were shooting at a mark — a 
pastime so utterly foolish in the view of Silas 
Strong that he would rarely permit any one at 
Lost River camp to indulge in it. He who dis- 
charged his rifle without sufficient provocation 
was roughly classed with that breed of hounds 
which had learned no better than to bark at a 
squirrel. 

“Paunchers!” he muttered, as he came up 
the trail. 

It should be explained here that he divided 
all “would-be sportsmen” into three classes — 
namely, swishers, pouters, and paunchers. A 
swisher was one who filled the air within reach 
of his cast, catching trees and bushes, but no 
fish; a pouter, one who baited and hauled his 
fish as if it were no better than a bull-pout; a 
pauncher was wont to hit his deer “in the mid- 
dle” and never saw him again. 

The Emperor stopped suddenly. He had 
seen a twig fall near him and heard the whiz 
of a bullet. 

“Whoa!” he called, his voice ringing in the 
timber. “H-hold on!” 

The Migleys — father and son — of Migleyville, 
hastened to greet the “ Emperor of the Woods.” 

118 


Silas Strong 

They were the heralds of the great king of 
which Strong had complained that night he laid 
his heart bare and whose name was Business — 
a king who ruled not with the sword, but with 
flattery and temptation and artful devices. The 
Emperor knew that they were the men who had 
bought his stronghold; that they were come to 
shove the frontier of their king far beyond the 
Lost River country; that axes and saws and 
dams and flooded flats and whirling wheels and 
naked hill-sides would soon follow them. 

“How are you, Mr. Strong ?” said the elder 
Migley, who, by his son, was familiarly called 
“Pop.” He overflowed with geniality. “Glad 
to see you. Hot an’ dry out in the clearing. 
Little track-worn. Thought we’d come in here 
for a breath o’ fresh air an’ a week or two o’ 
sport. Have a drink?” 

He winked one eye in a significant manner, 
which seemed to say that he had plenty and 
was out for a good time. 

“ N-no th-thanks,” said Strong, as he surveyed 
the stout figure of the elder Migley. 

Here was one of the royal family of Business, 
in dress neatly symbolic, for Mr. Migley wore a 
light suit of clothes divided into checks of con- 
siderable magnitude by stripes that ran, as it 
119 


Silas Strong 

were, north, south, east, and west. The broad 
convexity of his front resembled, in some degree, 
an atlas globe. One might have located any 
part of his system by degrees of latitude and 
longitude. His equator was represented by a 
large golden chain which curved in a great arc 
from one pocket of his waistcoat to the other. 
As he walked one might have imagined that he 
was moving in his orbit. His large, full face 
was adorned with a chin-whisker and a selfish 
and prosperous-looking nose. It had got pos- 
session of nearly all the color in his countenance, 
and occupied more than its share of space. The 
son, “Tom,” had older manners and a more 
severe face. He carried with him a look of 
world-weariness and a sense of all-embracing 
knowledge so frequently derived from youthful 
experience. He was the-only-son type of do- 
mestic tyrant — overfed, selfish, brutal, wearied 
by adulation, crowned with curly hair. 

“Look at that boy,” the elder Migley whis- 
pered, pointing at the fat young man of twenty- 
three who sat on a door-sill cleaning his rifle. 
“Ain’t he a picture? Got a fast mark in Hash- 
ford Seminary.” Mr. Migley owned a number 
of trotting-horses, and his conversation was al- 
ways flavored with the cant of the stable. 


120 


Silas Strong 

Strong looked sadly at the fat young man, 
who was, indeed, the very personification of 
pulp, and thought of the doom of the woods. 

The elder Migley, as if able to read the mind 
of Strong, offered him the consolation of a cigar. 
Then he reached to the pegs above him and 
lowered a quaking whip of greenheart which he 
had put together soon after his arrival. 

“ Heft it,” he whispered, pressing his rod upon 
the Emperor. “Ain’t that a dandy?” 

He looked into the eyes of the woodsman. 
He winked a kind of challenge, and added, 
“Seems to me that ought to fetch ’em.” 

“Mebbe,” Strong answered, gently swaying 
the rod. He was never too free in committing 
himself. 

“Got it for Tommy,” said the new sports- 
man. “Ketched a four-pounder with it — ask 
him if I didn’t.” Mr. Migley had the habit of 
self-corroboration, and Strong used to say that 
he never believed that kind of a liar. 

“Le’s go an’ try ’em,” Migley suggested. 

The Emperor smoked thoughtfully a moment. 

“D-down river, bym-by,” he said, pointing at 
the cook-tent as if he had now to prepare the 
dinner. 

Strong had seen the Migleys before, although 


Silas Strong 

he had never entertained them. They had 
paunched and pouted in territory not far remote 
from Lost River, and won a reputation which 
had travelled among the guides. They worked 
hard, and hurried out of the woods with all the 
fish and meat they could carry, and no respect 
for any law save one — the law of gravitation. 
They sat down or lay upon their backs every 
half-hour. Now, it seemed, they were to aban- 
don the vulgar art of the pouter for one more 
gentle and becoming. 

Strong hastened to the cook- tent, where he 
found Sinth treating the children to sugared 
cakes and words of motherly fondness. 

“Teenty little dears!” she was saying when 
Silas entered the door. 

She rose quickly, and hurried to the stove 
with a kind of shame on her countenance. Silas 
kept a sober face while he went for the water- 
pail, as if he had not “took notice.” His joy 
broke free and expressed itself in loud laughter 
on his way to the spring. 

“Snook!” Sinth exclaimed, her face red with 
embarrassment as she heard him. She poked 
the fire with great energy, and added: “Let the 
fool laugh. I don’t care if he did hear me.” 

A new impulse from the heart of nature en- 


Silas Strong 

tered the Migley breast. Father and son were 
seeking an opportunity to use their muscles. 
The son seized a girder above his head and be- 
gan to chin it; the father went to work with an 
axe, and his enthusiasm fell in heavy blows upon 
a beech log. 

Strong peered through the window at him 
and muttered the one contemptuous word, 
4 ‘ W -woodpecker ! ’ ’ 

A poor chopper in that part of the country 
was always classed with the woodpeckers. 

Dinner over, the elder Migley opened his tin 
fishing - box and displayed an assortment of 
cheap flies and leaders. 

“Well, captain,” said the young man, as he 
turned to Strong, “if you’ll show us where the 
trout live, we’ll show you who they belong to.” 
He passed judgment and bestowed rank upon 
a great many people, and most of his brevets, 
if he had been frank with them, would have put 
his life in peril. 

“Pop” Migley touched a rib of the Emperor 
wdth his big, coercive thumb, shut one eye, and 
produced a kind of snore in his larynx. 

The wit of his son had increased the cheerful- 
ness of Mr. Migley. He began telling coarse 
tales, and continued until, as the Emperor would 
123 


Silas Strong 

say, he had “emptied his reel.” The man who 
talked too much always had a “big reel,” in the 
thought of the Emperor, and “slack line” was 
the phrase he applied to empty words. 

With everything ready for sport, they pro- 
ceeded to the landing on Lost River and were 
soon seated in a long canoe. 

“We’ll t-try Dunmore’s trout,” said Strong as 
they left the shore. 

“Dunmore’s trout?” said the elder Migley. 

“Ay-uh,” the Emperor answered. “He 
hitched onto an’ 1-lost him.” 

“Oh, it’s that fish I’ve heard about that 
grabbed off one of Dunmore’s flies,” said the 
elder Migley. 

“Uh-huh,” the Emperor assented. 

As a matter of fact, the old gentleman who 
lived on the shore of Buckhorn had done a good 
deal of talking about this remarkable fish. 

Father and son sat with rods in hand while 
Strong worked through the still water and down 
a long rush of rapids and halted below them 
near a deep pool flecked with foam. 

“C-cast,” said he. 

With a wild swish and a spasmodic movement 
of arm and shoulder, “Pop” Migley, who sat 
amidships, tipped the canoe until it took water. 

124 


Silas Strong 

Strong dashed his paddle and recovered balance. 
The young man swore. 

“C-cast yer f -flies” Strong suggested, and his 
emphasis clearly indicated that the fisherman 
should cease casting his body. 

Again the nouveau worked his rod, whipping 
its point to the water fore and aft. Flies and 
leader clawed over the back of Silas Strong, 
fetching his hat off. Before he could recover, 
the young man went into action. Strong 
ducked in time to save an ear, splashing his 
paddle again to keep the canoe on its bottom. 
The tail-fly had caught above his elbow. When 
Strong tried to loosen its hold the young man 
was tugging at the line. Strong endeavored to 
speak, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. 
Suddenly the other rod came back with a power- 
ful swing and smote him on the top of his 
head. 

He had been trying to say “ See here,” but his 
tongue had halted on the s. Then he took a 
new tack, as it were, and tried a phrase which 
began with the letter g, and had fair success 
with it. 

Both Migleys gave a start of surprise. The 
Emperor waited to recover self-control and felt 
a touch of remorse. 


125 


Silas Strong 

“Le’ me c-climb a t-tree,” he suggested, 
presently. 

The elder Migley burst into loud laughter. 

“Stop fooling!” said the young man. “I'd 
like to get some fish.” 

He swung his rod, and was again tugging at 
the shirt-sleeve of the Emperor. 

Strong blew as he clung to the leader. 

“C-cast c-crossways,” he commanded, with a 
gesture. 

The fishermen rested a moment. A hundred 
feet or so below them Strong saw a squirrel 
crossing the still water. Suddenly there was 
a movement behind him, and he sank out of 
sight. In half a moment he rose again, swim- 
ming with frantic haste to reach a clump of 
alder branches. Strong knew the mysterious 
villain of this little drama of the river, but said 
not a word of what he had seen. 

The “sports” resumed fishing with less con- 
fidence and more care. Soon they were able 
to reach off twenty feet or so, but they raked 
the air with deadly violence, and every moment 
one leader was laying hold of the other or catch- 
ing in a tree- top. Strong pulled down bough 
after bough to free the flies. Presently they 
were caught high in a balsam. 

126 


Silas Strong 

“ Take us where there’s trout. What do you 
think we’re fishing for, anyway?” said young 
Migley. 

“B-birds,” Strong answered, as he continued 
hauling at the tree- top with hand and paddle. 
He used language always for the simple pur- 
pose of expressing his thoughts. Soon the elder 
Migley began to feel the need of information. 
He passed his rod to the Emperor. 

“ Show me how ye do it,” said he. 

Strong paddled to a large, flat rock which 
rose, mid - stream, a little above water. He 
climbed upon it and sat down lazily. 

Nature had taught him, as she teaches all who 
bear heavy burdens, to conserve his strength. 
He had none to waste in the support of dignity. 
When he sat down his weight was braced with 
hand, foot, and elbow so as to rest his heart 
and muscles. Now he seemed to anchor him- 
self by throwing his right knee over his left 
foot. His garment of cord and muscle lay 
loosely on his bones. There was that in the 
pose of this man to remind one of an ox lying 
peacefully in the field. He drew a loop of 
line off the reel, and with no motion of arm 
or body, his wrist bent, the point of the rod 
sprang forward, his flies leaped the length of his 
127 


Silas Strong 

line and fell lightly on the river surface. They 
wavered across the current. He drew another 
loop of line. The rod rose and gave its double 
spring, and his flies leaped away and fell farther 
down the current. So his line flickered back and 
forth, running out and reaching with every cast 
until it spanned near a hundred feet. 

Still the Emperor smoked lazily, and, saving 
that little movement of the wrist, reposed as mo- 
tionless and serene as the rock upon which he sat. 

Suddenly Strong’s figure underwent a remark- 
able change. He bent forward, alert as a panther 
in sight of his prey. His mouth was open, his 
eyes full of animation. The supple wrist bent 
swiftly. The flies sprang up and flashed back- 
ward; the line sang in its flight. Where the 
squirrel rose a big trout had sprung above wa- 
ter and come down with a splash. But he had 
missed his aim. Again the flies lighted precisely 
where the trout sprang and wavered slowly 
through the bubbles. A breath of silence fol- 
lowed. The finned arrow burst above water in a 
veil of mist ; down he plunged with a fierce grab 
at the tail-fly. The wrist of the fisherman sprang 
upward. The barb caught; the line slanted 
straight as a lance and seemed to strike at the 
river-bottom. The rod was bending. The fish 
128 


Silas Strong 

had given a quick haul, and now the line’s end 
came rushing in. The shrewd old trout knew 
how to gather slack on a fisherman. Strong 
rose like a jack-in-the-box. His hand flashed 
to the reel. It began to play like the end of a 
piston. He swung half around and his rod 
came up. The fish turned for a mad rush. 
With hands upon rod and silk the fisherman 
held to check him. Strong’s line ripped through 
the water plane from mid-river to the shadow 
of the bank. The strain upon the fish’s jaw 
halted him. He settled and began to jerk on 
the line. Strong raised his foot and tapped 
the butt of his rod. The report seemed to go 
down the line as if it had been a telephone 
message. It startled the trout, and again he 
took a long reach of silk off the reel. Then 
slowly he went back and forth through an arc 
of some twenty feet, and the long line swung like 
a pendulum. Weakened by his efforts, he began 
to lead in. Slowly he came near the rock, and 
soon the splendid trout lay gasping from utter 
weariness an arm’s-length from his captor. 

As the net approached him he dove again, 
hauling with fierce energy. The man was lean- 
ing over the edge of the rock, his rod in one hand, 
his net in the other. He came near losing his 
129 


Silas Strong 

balance in the sudden attack. He scrambled 
into position. Again the trout gave up and 
followed the strain of the leader. Strong let 
himself down upon the river-bottom beside the 
rock, and stood to his belt in water. The fish 
retreated again and came back helpless and 
was taken. 

He filled the net. A great tail - fin waved 
above its rim. The Emperor hefted his catch 
and blew like a buck deer, after his custom in 
moments of great stress. Then came a declara- 
tion of unusual length. 

“Ye could r-reel me in with a c-c-cotton 
th-thread an* p-pick me up in yer f-fingers.” 

It was growing dusk. Strong clambered to 
the top of the rock. “Pop” Migley brought 
the canoe alongside. 

The Emperor gave a loud whistle of surprise. 

“Dunmore’s t-troutl” he said, soberly. He 
had found a “black gnat” embedded in the fish’s 
mouth, its snell broken near the loop. He put 
the struggling fish back in the net and tied his 
handkerchief across the top of it. 

The Migleys both agreed that they were ready 
for supper. 

The Emperor got aboard and requested the 
elder Migley to keep the fish under water, while 
130 


Silas Strong 

he took his paddle and pushed for camp. They 
put their trout in a spring at the boat-house. 

The sports hurried to camp. Master came 
down the path and met Strong. 

“I’ve got D-Dunmore’s t-trout,” said the 
latter. 

“Good!” Master answered; “that will give us 
an excuse to go and call on him.” 


XIII 


HAT evening, while the others 
went out to sit by the camp-fire, 
Silas Strong put the children to 
bed and lay down beside them. 
They begged him for a story, 
and, while he had neither skill nor practice in 
narration, he had, as the rustic merchant is 
wont to say, a desire to please. He knew 
that he had disappointed the children and 
was doing his best to recover their esteem. 
Possibly he ought to try and be more like other 
folks. He rubbed his thin, sandy beard, he 
groped among the treasures of his memory. 

Infrequently he had gone over them with 
Sinth or the Lady Ann, but briefly and with 
halting words and slow reflection. He had 
that respect for the past which is a character- 
istic of the true historian, but, in his view, 
it gave him little to say of his own exploits. 
He was wont to observe, ironically, that oth- 
ers knew more of them than he knew him- 



132 


Silas Strong 

self. Owing, it may be, to his little infirmity 
of speech, he had never been misled into the 
broad way of prevarication. Brevity had been 
his refuge and his strength. He regarded with 
contempt the boastful narratives of woodsmen. 

Now the siren voices of the little folks had 
made him thoughtful. Had he nothing to give 
them but disappointment ? He hesitated. Then 
he fell, as it were, but, happily, for the sake of 
those two he had begun to love, and not through 
pride. It was a kind of modesty which caused 
him to reach for the candle and blow T it out. 
Then, boldly, as it were, he began to sing a brief 
account of one of his own adventures. He could 
sing without stammering, and therefore he sang 
an odd and almost tuneless chant. He accepted 
such rhyme and rhythm as chanced to drift in 
upon the monotonous current of his epic; but 
he turned not aside for them. He sang glibly, 
jumping in and out of that old, melodious trail 
of “The Son of a Gamboleer.” Strong called 
this unique creation of his 

“ THE STORY OF THE MELLERED BEAR. 

“One day yer Uncle Silas went for to kill a bear, 
An* a dog he took an* follered which his name was 
little Zeb; 


*33 


Silas Strong 

Bym-by we come acrost a track which looked as big 
as sin, 

An’ Zeb he hollered ’twas a bear, which I didn’t quite 
believe in 

Until I got down on my knee, an’ then I kind o’ 
laughed, 

For su’thin’ cur’us showed me where he’d wrote his 
autygraft, 

An’ which way he was tra veilin’ all in the frosty snow ; 

An’ I folleredZeb, the bear-dog, as fast as I could go, 

An’ purty soon I see 

Where the bear had tore his overcoat upon a hem- 
lock-tree, 

An’ left some threads behind him which fell upon his 
track, 

Which I wouldn’t wonder if he done a-scratchin’ of 
his back, 

Which caused me for to grin an’ laugh all on ac- 
count o’ my feelin’s.” 

Here came a pause, in which the singer sought 
a moment of relaxation, as it would seem, in a 
thoughtful and timely cough. 

“Bym-by I come up kind o’ dost an’ where that I 
could see 

Zeb was jumpin’ like a rabbit an’ a-hollerin’ t’ me; 

An’ I could see the ol’ bear’s home all underneath a 
ledge, 

An’ the track of his big moggasins up to the very edge. 

I took an’ fetched some pine-knots an’ a lot of ol’ 
dead limbs, 

An’ built a fire upon his door-step an’ let the smoke 
blow in; 


134 


Silas Strong 

An’ then I took a piece o’ rope an’ tethered Zeb away 
So’s that he’d keep his breeches fer to use another 
day. 

An’ purty soon I listened an’ I heard the bear 
a-coughin’, 

An’ he sneezed an’ bellered out as if he guessed he’d 
be excused. 

All t’ once he bust out an’ the rifle give a yell, 

An’ I wouldn’t wonder if he thought — ” 

The narrator was halted for half a moment 
by another frog in his throat — as he explained. 
Then he went on: 

“An’ Zeb he tore away an’ took an’ fastened on the 
bear, 

An’ they rolled down-hill together, an’ the critter 
ripped the air, 

An’ I didn’t dast t’ shoot him for fear o’ killin’ Zeb, 
So I clubbed my rifle on the bear an’ mellered up his 
head.” 

Moist with perspiration, Silas Strong rose ana 
stood by the bedside and blew. Fifty miles 
with a boat on his back could not have taxed 
him more severely. He answered a few queries 
touching the size, fierceness, and fate of the bear. 
Then he retreated, whispering as he left the 
door, “Strong’s ahead.” 

Zeb lay on the foot of the bed, and Socky, 

135 


Silas Strong 

being a little timid in the dark, coaxed him to 
lie between them, his paws on the pillow. With 
their hands on the back of Zeb, they felt sure 
no harm could come to them. 

“Do you love Uncle Silas?” It was the 
question of little Sue. 

Socky answered, promptly, “Yes; do you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hunters don’t never wear good clothes.” 
So Socky went on, presently, as if apologizing 
to his own spirit for the personal appearance of 
his uncle. “They git ’em all tore up by the 
bears an’ panthers.” 

“That’s how he got his pants tore,” Sue sug- 
gested, thinking of his condition that day they 
met him on the trail. 

“Had a fight with a ’kunk,” Socky answered, 
quickly. He had overheard something of that 
adventure at Robin Lake. 

They lay thinking a moment. Then up spoke 
the boy. “ I wisht he had a gold watch.” 

With Socky the ladder by which a man rose 
to greatness had many rounds. The first was 
great physical strength, the next physical ap- 
pearance ; the possession of a rifle and the 
sacred privilege of bathing the same in bear’s- 
oil was distinctly another; symbols of splendor, 
136 


Silas Strong 

such as watches, finger-rings, and the like, had 
their places in the ladder, and qualities of im- 
agination were not wholly disregarded. 

Sue tried to think of something good to say 
— something, possibly, which would explain her 
love. It was her first trial at analysis. 

“ He wouldn’t hurt nobody,” she suggested. 

“He can carry a tree on his back” — so it 
Seemed to Socky. 

“ He wouldn’t let nothin’ touch us,” said Sue, 
still working the vein of kindness which she had 
discovered. 

“He’s the most terrible powerful man in the 
world,” Socky averred, and unconsciously twist- 
ed the soft ear of Zeb until the latter gave a 
little yelp of complaint. 

“ He can kill bears an’ panthers an’ deers an’ 
— an’ ketch fish,” said Sue. 

“He could swaller a whale,” Socky declared, 
as he thought of the story of Jonah. 

“Aunt Sinthy has got a hole in her shoe.” 
The girl imparted this in a whisper. 

Both felt the back of Zeb and were silent for 
a little. 

“She blubbers!” Socky exclaimed, with a 
slight touch of contempt in the way he said 
it. 


IO 


137 


Silas Strong 

“ Maybe she got her feet wet and Uncle Silas 
spanked her.” 

“Big folks don’t get spanked,” the boy as- 
sured Sue. 

“Do you like her?” 

He answered quickly, as if the topic were a 
bore to him, “Purty well.” 

Sue had hoped for greater frankness. Her 
own opinion of her Aunt Cynthia, while favor- 
able, was unsettled. She thought of a thing 
in connection with her aunt which had given 
her some concern. She had been full of won- 
der as to its hidden potentialities. 

In a moment Sue broached the subject by 
saying, “She’s got a big mold on her neck.” 

“ With a long hair on it,” Socky added. “ Bet 
you wouldn’t dast pull that hair.” 

Sue squirmed a little. That single hair had, 
somehow, reminded her of the string on a jump- 
ing-jack. She reflected a moment. 

“I put my finger on it,” said she, boast- 
fully. 

“That’s nothing,” Socky answered. “Uncle 
Silas let me feel the shot what he got in his arm. 
Gee, it was kind o’ funny.” He squirmed a 
little and thoughtfully felt his foot. 

Sue recognized the superior attraction of the 

138 


Silas Strong 

buried shot and held her peace a moment. 
Both had begun to yawn. 

“ Wisht it was t’-morrow,” said Sue. 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cause I’m going to see the beautiful lady.” 
“An’ the crow, too,” Socky whispered. 

They were, indeed, to see her sooner than they 
knew — in dreamland. 

Zeb now retired discreetly to the foot of the 
bed. 

After a little silence Sue put her arms about 
her brother’s neck and pressed him close. 

“Wisht I was in heaven,” she said, drowsily, 
with a little cry of complaint. 

“Why?” 

“So I could see my mother.” 

“ She’s way up a million miles beyond where 
the hawks fly,” said the boy, as he gaped wearily. 

Thereafter the room was silent, save for the 
muffled barking of Zeb in his slumber. He, too, 
was dreaming, no doubt, of things far away. 


XIV 

HEY were a timely arrival — those 
new friends who had found Edith 
Dunmore. She was no longer sat- 
isfied with the narrow world in 
which her father had imprisoned 
her, and had begun to wander alone as if in quest 
of a better one. That hour of revelation on 
the shore of Birch Cove led quickly to others 
quite as wonderful. 

She had no sooner reached home than she 
told her grandmother of the young man and the 
children who had come with him to the shore of 
Catamount and of a strange happiness in her 
heart. It was then that a sense of duty in the 
old Scotchwoman broke away from promises to 
her son which had long suppressed it. 

As they sat alone, together, the old lady talked 
to her granddaughter of the mysteries of life and 
love and death. Much in this talk the girl had 
gathered for herself, by inference, out of books — 
mostly fairy tales that her father had brought to 
140 



Silas Strong 

her — and out of the evasions which had greeted 
her questioning and out of her own heart. 

Her queries followed one another fast and 
were answered freely. She learned, among other 
things, a part of the reason for their lonely life — 
that her father was not like other men, not even 
like himself; that their isolation had been a 
wicked and foolish error; that men were not, 
mostly, children of the devil seeking whom they 
might destroy, but kindly, giving and desiring 
love; that she, Edith Dunmore, had a right to 
live like the rest of God’s children, and to love 
and be loved and given in marriage and to have 
her part in the world’s history. 

All this and much good pounsel besides the 
old lady gave to the girl who sat a long time 
pondering after her grandmother had left her. 

In the miracle of birth and the storied change 
that follows dissolution she saw the magic of 
fairyland. To her Paristan had been much more 
real than the republic in which she lived. 

She longed for the hour to come when she 
should again see those wonderful children and 
the still more wonderful being who had brought 
them in his canoe. 

Next morning she set out early in the trail 
to Catamount with her little guide and com- 


Silas Strong 

panion. She had named him Roc, after the 
famous bird of Oriental tradition. She arrived 
there long before the hour appointed. Slowly 
she wandered to the trail over which Master and 
the children would be sure to come. She ap- 
proached the camp at Lost River and stood 
peering through thickets of young fir. She saw 
the boy and girl at play, and watched them. 
Soon Master came out of one of the cabins. 
Now, somehow, she felt a greater fear of him 
than before, yet she longed to look into his face 
— to feel the touch of his hand. 

The crow had taken his perch in a small tree 
beside his mistress. He seemed to be looking 
thoughtfully at the children, with now and then 
a little croak of criticism or of amusement, end- 
ing frequently in a sound like half- suppressed 
laughter. He raised a foot and slowly scratched 
his head, a gaze of meditation deepening in his 
eyes. Suddenly his interest seemed to grow 
keener. He moved a step aside, rose in the air, 
and approached the children. Darting to the 
ground, he picked up a little silver compass 
which one of them had dropped, and quickly 
returned with it. The children called to Master, 
and all three followed the crow. His mistress, 
scarcely knowing why, had run up the trail, and 
142 


Silas Strong 

Roc pursued her with foot and wing, croaking 
urgently, as if his life and spoil depended on 
their haste. Reaching a thicket beside the trail, 
she hid under its sheltering cover and sat down 
to rest. The crow, following, scrambled upon her 
shoulder and dropped the bit of silver into her 
lap. She held his beak to keep him quiet when 
Master and the children came near, but as the 
latter were passing they could hear the smoth- 
ered laughter of Roc. 

In a moment Socky and Sue ran to their new 
friend, while Master waited near them. The 
crow spread his wings and seemed to threaten 
with a scolding chatter. The girl threw the bird 
in the air and took the hands of the children and 
drew them to her breast. She held them close 
and looked into their faces. 

“Dear fairies!” said she, impulsively kissing 
them. 

“ Tell us where the cranes go with— with the 
young fairies,” Sue managed to say, her hands 
and voice trembling. 

Miss Dunmore sat looking down sadly for a 
little before she answered. Sue, curiously, felt 
“the lady's” cheeks that were now rose-red and 
beautiful. 

“I will tell you what my father says,” the 

143 


Silas Strong 

latter began. “The cranes take them to Slum- 
bercity on a great marsh and put them in their 
nests. The heads of the young fairies are bald 
and smooth and the cranes sit on them as if they 
were eggs. By-and-by wonderful thoughts and 
dreams come into them so that the fairies wake 
up and begin crying for they are very hungry. 
They remember the spring of milk, but they 
are so young and helpless they can only reach out 
their hands and cry for it. Some of the cranes 
stand on one leg in the marsh and listen. The 
moment they hear the young fairies crying they 
fly away to find mothers for them. The un- 
happy little things are really not fairies any 
more — they are babies. Some of the cranes 
come and dance around the nest to keep them 
quiet, and the babies sit up and open their eyes 
and begin to laugh, it is so very funny. And 
that night a big crane sits by the side of each 
baby and the baby creeps on his back and rides 
away to his mother. And he is so weary after 
his ride that he sleeps and is scarcely able to move, 
and when he wakes and smiles and laughs, he re- 
members how the cranes danced in the marsh.” 

Curiously, silently, the children looked into 
her face, while she, with wonder equal to their 
own, put her arms around them. 

144 


Silas Strong 

“My father says that there are no people — 
that we are really nothing but young fairies 
asleep and dreaming up in the tops of the trees, 
and that the fairy heaven is not here/’ 

She gazed into the eyes of the boy a moment, 
all unconscious of his mental limitations. Then 
she added, “You’re nothing but a big fairy— 
you’re so very young.” 

Socky drew away with a look of injury and 
threw out his chest. 

“I’m six years old,” he answered, with dig- 
nity. “In a little while I’ll be a man.” 

Miss Dunmore drew them close to her and 
said, “ I wish I could take you home with me.” 

“ Have you any maple sugar there?” the little 
girl inquired. 

“Yes, and a tame fox and a little fawn.” 

“But you ’ain’t got no Uncle Silas,” said the 
boy, boastfully. 

“Ner no Aunt Sinth,” Sue ventured. Then, 
with her tiny fingers, she felt the neck of “the 
beautiful lady” to see if there were a “mold” 
on it. She was thinking of one of the chief at- 
tractions of her aunt. In a moment she added, 
“Ner no Uncle Robert.” They had begun to 
call him Uncle Robert. 

“Is he the man I saw?” the maiden asked. 
i45 


Silas Strong 

Both children nodded affirmatively. 

“Do you love him?” 

“ Yes ; would you like to take him home with 
you, too?” Socky asked, with a look of deep in- 
terest. If they were to go he would wish to 
have his new uncle with them, and Sue saw the 
point. 

“ He can carry you on his back and growl jes’ 
like a bear,” she urged. “ He can put his mouth 
on your cheek and make such a funny noise.” 

Miss Dunmore looked away, blushing red. 
It was a curious kind of love-making. She 
whispered in the ear of the little girl, “Would 
you let me have him?” 

Sue looked up into her eyes doubtfully. 

“ She wants our Uncle Robert,” Socky guessed 
aloud. 

“But not to keep?” Sue questioned, as if it 
were not to be thought of. 

The eyes of the children were looking into 
those of “the beautiful lady.” 

“I couldn’t have him?” the latter asked. 

“We’ll give you our coon,” Sue suggested, by 
way of compromise. 

“ I am sure he — your uncle — would not go 
with me,” Miss Dunmore suggested. 

Socky seemed now to think that the time had 
146 


Silas Strong 

come for authoritative information. He broke 
away and called to his new uncle. 

The maiden rose quickly, blushing with sur- 
prise. She turned away as Robert Master came 
in sight, and stood for half a moment looking 
down. Then, stooping, she picked a wild flower 
and timidly offered it. The act. was full of 
childish simplicity. It spoke for her as her 
tongue could not. Knowledge acquired since 
she saw him last had possibly increased her 
shyness. 

“She wants you,” said the boy, with vast 
innocence, while he looked up at the young 
man. 

“I wish I could believe it were true,” said 
Master, as he came nearer by a step to the daugh- 
ter of the woodland. 

She turned with a look of fear and said, “I 
must go,” as she ran to the trail, followed by 
Roc. 

A little distance away she turned, looking 
back at the young man. Something in her eyes 
told of a soul beneath them lovelier than its 
nobly fashioned house. Moreover, they pro- 
claimed the secret which she would fain have 
kept. 

“Shall we shake hands?” he asked. 
i47 


Silas Strong 

She took a step towards him and stopped. 

“No,” she answered. 

“I must see you again,” said Master, with 
passionate eagerness, fearing that she was about 
to leave. 

She looked down but made no answer. The 
children put their arms about her knees as if to 
detain her. 

“You will not forget to come Thursday?” he 
added. 

“The beautiful lady” stood looking at him, 
her left hand upon her chin, her arms bare to the 
elbows. A smile, an almost imperceptible nod, 
and the eloquence of her eyes were the only an- 
swer she gave him, but they were enough. 

“Will you not speak to me?” the young man 
urged, as he came nearer. 

She stood looking, curiously, until he could 
almost have touched her. Then, gently, she 
pushed the children away and fled up the trail, 
her pet following. In a moment she had gone 
out of sight. 

She was like the spirit of the woodland — 
wild, beautiful, silent. 


XV 


HERE was a great marsh around 
a set-back leading off the still 
water near Lost River camp. There 
the children had seen many cranes, 
and they did not forget that certain 
of them had stood upon one leg. After supper 
that evening they sat together whispering awhile 
and presently stole away. There was a trail for 
frog-hunters that led to their destination. They 
ran, eagerly, and, just as the sun was going down, 
stopped on a high bank overlooking the marshes. 
It was a broad flat covered with pools and tall 
grasses and bogs, crowned with leaves of the 
sweet-flag and with cattails and pussy-willows. 
Now it was still and hazy. The pools were like 
mirrors with the golden glow of the sky and soft, 
dark shadows in them. 

Far out on the marsh they discovered a crane 
strolling leisurely among the bogs, and began to 
chatter about him. 

They looked and listened until the sun had 
149 




Silas Strong 

gone below the tops of the trees. Then cranes 
came flying homeward out of the four skies, and, 
one by one, lighted on the edge of a bog some 
two or three hundred feet from the children. 
Sue uttered a little cry of joy. The cranes stood 
motionless with heads up. 

“They’re listening,” Socky assured his sister. 

Bull-frogs had begun croaking and a mud-hen 
was making a sound like that of a rusty pump. 
The children now sat on the side of the bank and 
leaned forward straining their eyes and ears. 

Soon the far, shrill cry of some little animal 
rang above the chorus of the marsh. The chil- 
dren took it to be a baby, and seemed almost to 
writhe with suppressed laughter mingled with 
hopeful and whispered comment. In his ex- 
citement Socky slipped off his perch and came 
near rolling down the side of the bank. One of 
the cranes began to shuffle about, his wings half 
open, like an awkward dancer. Soon the whole 
group of birds seemed to be imitating him, and 
each shuffled on his long legs as if trying to be 
most ridiculous. The dusk was thickening, and 
the children could only just discern them. They 
sat close together and held each other’s hands 
tightly, and looked out upon the marsh and were 
silent with awe and expectation. Suddenly the 
i5° 


Silas Strong 

cranes scattered into the bushes and the sedge. 
Socky and Sue were now watching to see them 
fly. It was almost dark and a big moon seemed 
to be peering through the tops of the trees. 
Soon the great birds strode slowly in single file 
past the wonder-stricken two. 

“See the babies! See the babies !” Sue cried 
out. 

They squirmed and shivered with awe, their 
lips and eyes wide with amazement. In the 
dim light they imagined that a baby sat on the 
back of each crane. Sue had no sooner cried 
out than there came a flapping of wings that 
seemed to fill the sky. The feathered caravan 
had taken to the air and were swinging in a wide 
circle around the edge of the marsh. They 
quickly disappeared in the gloom. 

“Gone to find mothers for ’em,” said Socky, 
in a trembling whisper. 

The children had suddenly become aware that 
it was quite dark, but neither dared speak of it. 
They still sat looking out upon the marsh and 
clinging hand to hand. Soon a procession of 
grotesque and evil creatures began to pass them : 
the great bear of the woods who had swallowed 
alive all the little runaways, and who, having 
made them prisoners, only let them come out 

151 


Silas Strong 

now and then to ride upon his back; the big 
panther-bird who lured children from their homes 
with berries and flowers and nuts and, maybe, 
raisins, and who, when they were in some lonely 
place, dropped stones upon their heads and slew 
them; odd, indescribable shapes, some having 
long, hairy necks and heads like cocoa-nuts ; and, 
lastly, came that awful horned creature, with 
cloven hoofs and the body of a man, who carried 
a pitchfork and who, soon or late, flung all the 
bad children into a lake of fire. Socky and Sue 
covered their faces with their hands. Suddenly 
a prudent thought entered the mind of the 
boy. 

“I’m going to be good,” said he, in a loud but 
timid voice. “I love God best of every one.” 
His sister gave a little start. 

In half a moment she suggested, her eyes 
covered with her hands, “You don’t love God 
better than Uncle Silas?” 

Socky hesitated. Prudence and affection 
struggled for the mastery. 

“Yes,” he managed to say, although with 
some difficulty. “Don’t you?” 

Sue hesitated. 

He nudged her and whispered, “Say yes — 
say it out loud.” 


152 


Silas Strong 

The word came from Sue in a low, pathetic 
wail of fear. 

“ I ain’t never goin’ to tell any more lies,” the 
boy asserted, in a firm, clear voice, “er swear er 
run away.” 

They both gave a cry of alarm, for Zeb had 
sprung upon them and begun to lick their faces. 
Their aunt and uncle had missed them and Zeb 
had led his master to where they sat. 

Strong had heard the children choosing be- 
tween him and their Creator and understood. 
Socky and Sue, after the shock of Zeb’s sudden 
arrival, were encouraged by his presence and 
began to take counsel together. 

“We better go home,” said Socky. 

“ What if we meet something?” 

“Pooh! I’ll crook my finger to him an’ say, 
‘Sile Strong is my uncle,’” Socky answered, 
confidently. “You’ll see him run fast enough.” 

It was a formula which his uncle had taught 
him, and he had tried it upon a deer and a hedge- 
hog with eminent success. 

The Emperor had planned to give them a 
scare by way of punishment, but now he had 
no heart for severity. He walked through the 
bushes whistling. He said not a word as he 
knelt before them — indeed, the man dared not 

ii i53 


Silas Strong 

trust himself to speak. With cries of joy they 
climbed upon his shoulders and embraced him. 
Strong rose and slowly carried them through the 
dark trail. He could not even answer their 
questions. He was thinking of their faith in 
him — of their love, the like of which he had 
never known or dreamed of and was not able to 
understand. Sinth was out with a lantern when 
they returned. The children were asleep in his 
arms. 

“Sh-h-h! Don’t scold, sister,” said he, in a 
voice so gentle it surprised himself. They put 
the children to bed and walked to the cook-tent. 
Strong told of all he had heard them say. 

“I dunno but you’ll have to whip ’em,” said 
Sinth. 

Strong was drying the little boots of the boy. 
He touched them tenderly with his great hand. 
He smiled and shook his head and slowly stam- 
mered, “If we’re g-goin’ t’ be g-good ’nough t’ 
’s-sociate with them we got t’ wh-whip our- 
selves.” 

He rose and put a stick of wood on the 
fire. 

“Th-they think I’m m-most as good as God,” 
he added, huskily, and then he went out-of- 
doors. 


i54 


Silas Strong 

Before going to bed that night he made this 
entry in his memorandum-book: 

“ Strong won’t do he’ll have to be tore down an’ 
built over.” 


XVI 


HE Migleys had engaged Strong 
to take them out of the woods 
next day. They were going to the 
Fourth-of- July celebration at Hills- 
borough. Master was going also, 
for he was to be orator of the day. Strong, hear- 
ing the talk of the others, had “got to wishin’,” 
as Sinth put it, and had finally concluded to go 
on to Hillsborough and witness the celebration. 
So Master had sent for his guide to come and 
stay at Lost River camp until the return of 
Silas. 

The Emperor was getting ready to go. Some 
one had told him that a man at Hillsborough 
was buying coons and foxes for the zoological 
gardens in New York. He considered whether 
he had better take his young pet coon with him. 
In that hour of expanding generosity when he 
had broken his bank, as the saying goes, he had 
forgotten his new responsibilities. There were 
the children, and that necessity which often 
i5 6 



Silas Strong 

awoke him at night and whispered of impending 
evil — he must leave his old home and find a new 
one somewhere in the forest. The little people 
would need boots and dresses, and why shouldn’t 
they have a rocking-horse or some cheering toy 
of that character? Such reflections began to 
change — to amend, as it were — his view of 
money. 

Furthermore, Sinth had no respect for coons. 
Ever since the Emperor had captured him, much 
of her ill - nature had been focussed upon the 
coon. 

“W- woods g-goin’,” he mused, as he fed the 
little creature. “W-we got t’ git t-tame.” 

“You better take him along,” said Sinth, as 
she came out of the cook- tent. “Jim Warner 
got ten dollars for a coon down to Canton las’ 
summer.” 

“C-come on, Dick,” said the hunter, with 
some regret in his tone as he fastened the coon’s 
cage upon his basket. 

Strong looped a cord through the wire and 
the buckles of both shoulder-braces. Master 
had taken the river route, and would drive to 
Hillsborough from Tupper’s. Strong and the 
Migleys were going out through Pitkin. The 
“ sports” had been on their way for more than 
i57 


Silas Strong 

half an hour. Strong put his arms in the straps 
and followed them. He turned in the trail and 
called back: 

“ B-better times !” he shouted. It was a cheer- 
ful sentiment which he often expressed in mo- 
ments of parting with Sinth. 

“Don’t believe it,” Sinth answered. 

“You s-see,” he insisted, and then he disap- 
peared in the timber. 

As the travellers went on, the Migleys ex- 
hibited increasing respect for the law of gravi- 
tation. They gave their coats to the Emperor, 
who studiously kept as far ahead or behind 
them as possible to avoid conversation. He was 
“tongue weary,” and told them so. 

Late in the afternoon they came to a new 
lumber-camp. “The Warren job” had pushed 
its front across the old trail. What desolation 
had fallen where Strong passed, two weeks be- 
fore, in the shadow of the primeval wood! Its 
green roof lay in scraggled, withering heaps ; the 
under thickets had been cut away ; the ferns lay 
flat, blackening on the sunburned soil. An old 
skeleton of pine lifted its broken arms high above 
the scene of desolation, and one could hear its 
bones creak and rattle in the breezy heavens. 

Great shafts of spruce and pine were being 
158 


Silas Strong 

sawed into even lengths and hauled to a skid- 
way. Busy men looked small as ants in the 
edge of the high forest. Some swayed in pairs, 
'‘pulling the briar, ” as woodsmen say of those 
who work with a saw. 

Strong and the Migleys halted to watch the 
downfall of a great pine. Soon the sawyers put 
their wedge in the slit and smote upon it. The 
sheet of steel hissed back and forth. Then a few 
blows of the axe. The men gave a shout of warn- 
ing and drew aside. The great tree began to creak 
and tremble. Slowly it bent and groaned; its 
long arms seemed to clutch at the air. Then it 
pitched headlong, its top whistling, its heavy 
stem shaking the ground upon which it fell. A 
voice of thunder seemed to proclaim its fate. 
The axemen lopped off its branches, and soon 
the long column lay stark, and the growth of 
two centuries had come to its end. Strong and 
his companions stood a moment longer watching 
the scene. 

“Huh!” the Emperor grunted, with a sorry 
look as they passed on. 

Near sundown they came into the cleared 
land — the sandy, God-forsaken barrens of Tif- 
ton, robbed of root and branch and soil, of 
their glory, and the one crop nature had de- 
i59 


Silas Strong 

signed for them. The travellers passed a de- 
serted cabin on a hot, stony hill. In its door- 
yard they could see a plough and an old wagon 
partly overgrown with weeds. Some one had 
tried to live on the spoiled earth and had come 
to discouragement. Where ten thousand men 
could have found healing and refreshment there 
was not enough growing to feed a dozen sheep. 
Here a part of the great inheritance of man had 
been forever ruined. Strong spoke of the pity 
of it. 

“Can’t be helped,” said the elder Migley. 
“A man has a right to cut and sell his timber.” 

Strong made no question of that, claiming 
only that the cutting should be “reg’lated,” an 
expression which he rarely took the trouble to 
explain. It stood for a meaning well considered 
— that the forest belonged to the people, the 
timber to the owner of the land ; that the right 
of the owner should be subject to restraint. 
He should be permitted to cut trees of a certain 
size only. So the forest would be made per- 
manent, and the owner and the generations to 
follow him would get a crop of timber every 
eight or ten years. 

The sun was setting when they came into the 
little forest hamlet. The Migleys put up at the 
160 


Silas Strong 

Pitkin general store, where one might have 
rude hospitality as well as merchandise. There 
Strong left pack and coon behind the counter 
and hastened to the home of Annette. The 
comely young woman rose from the supper- 
table and took both his hands in hers. 

“Strong’s ahead I” he answered, cheerfully, 
as she greeted him. 

In response to her invitation he sat down to 
eat. Her father lighted his pipe and left them. 
Silas told of the swishers and the big trout and 
the children. 

“M-me an’ Sinth is b-bein’ cut over,” he re- 
marked, with a smile, as he thought of the chil- 
dren. 

“What do you mean?” 

“B-bein’ cleared an’ p-ploughed an’ sowed.” 

She laughed a little as the Emperor unfolded 
his pleasantry. He thought of his improved 
account in the matter of swearing and of the 
better temper of Sinth. 

“Mellered!” he added. 

Annette was amused. 

“G-got t’ leave Lost R-river,” he said, pres- 
ently. 

“ Got to leave Lost River!” Annette exclaimed. 

“ Ay-ah,” Strong answered. He looked down 
161 


Silas Strong 

for a second, then he added, sorrowfully, “ G-goin’ 
to tear down the w- woods.” 

"It’s an outrage. Couldn’t you go to the 
plains?” 

“ S-sold.” 

“How about the Rag Lake country?” 

“Slashed!” 

Annette shook her head ruefully. 

“W-woods got t’ g-go,” said Strong, lean- 
ing forward and resting his elbows on his 
knees. 

“What ’ll you do?” 

“G-git tame,” Strong answered, as he rose 
and went to the squirrel cage and began to play 
with his old pet. The little animal came to 
his wire gateway and stood upon the palm of 
the Emperor’s hand. 

“ T- trespasser !” he remarked, stroking the 
squirrel. “ Th-they’ll have me in a c-cage, too, 
purty s-soon.” 

He put the squirrel away and offered his hand 
to Annette. 

“S-some day,” he whispered. 

“Some day,” she answered, with a sigh. 

“Y-you’re g-goin’ to hear me d-do some 
t-talkin’,” he assured her. The Lady Ann had 
often mildly complained of his reticence. 

162 


Silas Strong 

They now stood in front of the little veranda. 
She was looking up at him. 

“ It ’ll ’mount to s-suthin’, t-too,” he went on. 
It seemed as if he were making an honest effort 
to correct the idleness of his tongue. He was 
looking down at her and groping in his mind for 
some other cheerful sentiment. He seemed to 
make this happy discovery, and added, “ W-won- 
derful good t-times cornin’.” 

With a full heart she pressed his great hand 
in both of hers. 

“ K-keep ahead,” said he, cheerfully, and bade 
her good-night. 

With this he left her and was happy, for the 
taming of Sinth had seemed to bring that “ some 
day” of his promise into the near future. 

At the Pitkin general store his two companions 
had retired for the night, and he joined a group 
of woodsmen who occupied everything in the 
place which had a fairly smooth and accessible 
top on it. They were all in debt to the store- 
keeper and seemed to entertain a regard for him 
not unmingled with pity. This latter sentiment 
was, the historian believes, rather well founded. 
They called him “Billy,” with the inflection of 
fondness. Two sat slouching, apologetically, on 
the counter. One rested his weight, as tender- 
163 


Silas Strong 

ly and considerately as might be, on a cracker- 
barrel. Another reposed with a look of greater 
confidence on the end of a nail-keg. They were 
guides, two of whom had come out for pro- 
visions; the others, like Strong, were on their 
way to Hillsborough. 

“Here’s the old Emp’ror,” said one, as Strong 
entered and returned their greetings and sat 
down astride the beam of a plough. 

“I’d like to know what he thinks of it,” said a 
guide from the Jordan Lake country. 

Strong looked up at him without a word. 

“A millionaire has bought thirty thousand 
acres alongside o’ my camp,” the guide ex- 
plained. “ He won’t let me cross on the old trail. 
I had to go six mile out o’ my way to git here.” 

He smote the counter with his fist and coupled 
the name of the rich man with vile epithets. 

“ My father and my grandfather travelled that 
trail before he was born,” the angry woodsman 
declared. 

Strong leaned forward, his elbows on his 
knees, and looked at his hands without speaking. 
One laughed loudly, another gave out a sym- 
pathetic curse. 

“I’ll git even with him — you hear me.” So 
the aggrieved party expressed himself. 

164 


Silas Strong 

“How?” Strong inquired, looking up sud- 
denly, 

“I’ll git even. I’ll send a traveller into that 
preserve who’ll put him off it.” He spoke with 
a sinister suggestion. 

“Huh!” the Emperor grunted. He under- 
stood the threat of the other, who clearly meant 
to set the woods afire. 

“Ain’t I right? What d’ ye come to, any- 
way, when ye think it all over?” The words 
came hot and fast off the tongue of the com- 
plainer. 

“F-fool,” Strong stammered, calmly. There 
was something in his way of saying it that made 
the others laugh. 

A faint smile of embarrassment showed in the 
face of the angry woodsman. 

“Me or the millionaire?” he inquired. 

“B-both,” Strong answered, soberly, as the 
storm ended in a little gust of laughter. 

Strong had stripped the guide of his anger as 
deftly as a squirrel could take the shell off a nut. 
In the brief silence that followed he thought of 
another maxim for his memorandum-book, and 
soon it was recorded therein as follows: 


“ Man that makes trouble sure to have most of it.” 

165 


Silas Strong 

Presently he who sat on the cracker-barrel 
remarked, “If them air woods git afire now, 
they’ll burn the stars out o’ heaven.” 

All eyes turned upon the once violent man. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t fire the woods,” he 
muttered. He was now cool, and could see 
the folly and also the peril which lay in his 
threat. “I never said I’d set the woods afire, 
but the ol* trail has been a thoroughfare for nigh 
a hunderd year. I believe I’ve got as good a 
right to use it as he has.” 

“Th-think so?” the Emperor inquired. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then d-do it,” Strong answered, dryly. 
There was much in those three words and in 
the look of the speaker. It said, plainly, that 
the other was to do what he thought to be right 
and never what he knew to be wrong. 

“Lumbermen are more to blame,” said an- 
other, “Where they’ve been nobody wants 
to go. They cut everything down t’ the size o’ 
yer wrist an’ leave the soil covered with tinder- 
stacks. They think o’ nothin’ but the profit. 
Case o’ fire, woods ’round ’em wouldn’t hev a 
ghost of a show.” 

“Look at the Weaver tract,” said he who sat 
on the nail-keg. “ Four thousand acres o’ dead 
166 


Silas Strong 

tops — miles on ’em — an’ all as dry as gun- 
powder. If you was t’ touch a match there 
ye’d have to run fer yer life.” 

“ Go like a scairt deer,” said he of the cracker- 
barrel. “’Fore it stopped I guess ye’d think 
the world was afire.” 

“ W- woods g-goin’,” said the Emperor, sadly. 

He thought of the cold springs at which he 
had refreshed himself in the heat of the summer 
day and which were to perish utterly ; he thought 
of the brooks and rivers, slowing their pace like 
one stricken with infirmity, and, by-and-by, 
lying dead in the sunlight — lying in a chain of 
slimy pools across the great valley of the St. 
Lawrence; he thought of green meadows which, 
soon or late, would probably wither into a desert. 

“ What ’ll become of us ?” said he on the nail-keg. 

“ Have t’ be sawed an’ trimmed an’ planed an’ 
matched an’ go into town.” It was the voice 
above the cracker-barrel. 

“Not me,” said the occupant of the nail-keg. 
“ Too many houses an’ folks an’ too much noise. 
Couldn’t never stan’ it.” 

“Village is a cur’ous place,” said another, 
who had never been sober when he saw it. 
“Steeples an’ buildin’s an’ folks reel ’round in 
pairs. Seems so the sidewalk flowed like a 
167 


Silas Strong 

river, an’ nothin’ stan’s still long ’nough so ye 
can see how ’t looks.” 

The speaker was interrupted by the proprietor 
of the Pitkin general store, who came down- 
stairs and flung himself on the top of the counter. 

“ Goin’ t’ the Fourth?” said he of the cracker- 
barrel. 

“Might as well — got t’ hev a tooth drawed.” 

“I’ve got one that’s been growlin’ purty 
spiteful,” said the nail-kegger. “ Dunno but I 
might as well go an’ hev it tore out.” 

“I got t’ be snaked, too,” said the cracker- 
barrel man. 

“Reg’lar tooth-drawm’ down thar to-morrer,” 
said a voice from the counter. 

“ Beats all how the teeth git t’ rairin’ up ev’ry 
circus an’ Fourth o’ July,” said the nail-kegger. 
The laughter which now ensued seemed, as 
it were, to shake everybody off his perch. The 
counter and the cracker-barrel expressed them- 
selves in a creak of relief, and all went above- 
stairs save the Emperor. He cut a few boughs 
for a pillow, spread his blanket under the pine- 
trees, flung an end of it over his great body, and 
“let go,” as he was wont to say. At any time 
of day or night he had only to lie down and 
“let go,” and enjoy absolute forgetfulness. 

1 68 


XVII 


T the break of day next morning, 
Strong rose and called his fellow- 
travellers. Beside the turnpike he 
built a fire, over which he began 
to cook fish and potatoes and 
coffee. When the Migleys had come, all sat 
on a blanket within reach of their food and 
helped themselves in a fashion almost as ancient 
as the hills. Then Strong gave the coon his 
share, and washed the dishes and got his pack 
ready. It was a tramp of four miles to the 
station below Pitkin. They arrived there, how- 
ever, before the sun was an hour high. 

When they were seated in the end of the 
smoking-car, with coon and pack beside them, 
Mr. Migley began to reveal the plans of the great 
king, Business. Having increased his territory, 
he now felt the need of adding to his power. He 
must have more legislation, for there were to be 
ruthless changes of the map. Those few really 
free and independent people who dwelt in and 

la 1 69 



Silas Strong 

near the Lost River country were to be his sub- 
jects and they must learn to obey. At least they 
must not oppose him and make trouble. Gently 
his envoy began. 

“You know,” said he, “there’s to be a new 
member of Assembly in our district.” 

Strong nodded. 

“ I want my son to go,” the elder Migley went 
on, as he winked suggestively. “He’s goingto 
make his home in Pitkin, and it’s very necessary 
to his plans that you people should be with him. 
He’s got the talent of a statesman. Ask any- 
body who knows the boy.” 

He paused a moment. The Emperor made 
no reply. 

“ Level-headed and reliable in every spot an’ 
place, an’ a good-looker,” Migley continued, as 
if he were selling a road-horse, while he nudged 
the Emperor. “Look at him. I’d swap faces 
with that boy any day and give him ten thou- 
sand dollars to boot. Wouldn’t you?” 

Mr. Migley spoke in dead earnest. He pinched 
the knee of Strong and waited for his reply. 

“ W-wouldn’t fit me,” the Emperor replied. 

“Pop” Migley took the answer as a compli- 
ment and gurgled with good feeling. 

“ Strong, you’re a kind of a boss up here in the 


Silas Strong 

hills,” said he. “There isn’t a jay in the pine 
lands that wouldn’t walk twenty miles to caucus 
if you asked him to.” 

“Dunno,” Strong answered, doubtfully. 

“I know what I’m talking about,” said the 
lumberman, with a smile. “ I want the vote o’ 
the town o’ Pitkin. If we get that we can give 
’em all the flag.” 

Strong was not unaccustomed to this kind of 
appeal. There were not many voters in his town, 
but they always followed the Emperor. 

“You can get it for us,” Mr. Migley insisted. 

“ N-no.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ve promised to help M-Master.” 

“Oh, well, now, look here — you and I ought 
to be friends,” said Migley. “We ought to 
stand by each other. You look out for me and 
I’ll look out for you.” 

As he offered his alliance, Migley tenderly 
pressed the shoulder of Silas Strong. Then he 
put his index-finger on that square of latitude 
and longitude which indicated the region of his 
heart, and added, impressively, “I have the 
reputation of being true to my friends — ask 
anybody.” 

The hunter sat filling his pipe in silence. 

171 


Silas Strong 

“ With what’s pledged to us, if we get this town 
we can win easy.” 

Strong began to puff at his pipe thoughtfully. 
Here sat a man who could make or break him. 
His face reddened a little. He shook his head. 

Mr. Migley had caught the eye of a man he 
knew — Joe Socket — postmaster and politician 
of Moon Lake. He rose, tapped the shoulder 
of Strong, and said, “Think it over.” Then he 
hurried down the aisle of the car. 

He leaned over and whispered into the ear of 
Socket, “ What kind of a man is Strong?” 

“ Square,” said the other, promptly. “A little 
cranky in some ways, but you can depend upon 
him. He’ll do what he says — the devil couldn’t 
turn him.” 

“He says he’s pledged to Master* — that chap 
who’s come up here with a bag o’ money. Do 
you think Master has bought him?” 

“I don’t think so. I suppose he could be 
bought, but — but I never knew of his taking 
money. The boys of the back country swear by 
the Emperor ; they look up to him. Fact is, Sile 
Strong is a good fellow.” 

His oath seemed to contradict his affirmation. 

“He’s like a rock,” said Migley. “The glad 
hand don’t make any impression. What ye 
172 


Silas Strong 

going to do with a man who won’t drink or talk 
or swap lies with ye ? I could put the poor devil 
out of house and home, but he don’t seem to 
care.” 

“We’ll turn him over to the Congressman,” 
Socket answered. “ He’ll bring him into camp. 
If not we can get along without him.” 

The fact was the “ Emperor of the Woods ” 
was not like any other man they had to deal 
with — in history, character, and caliber. 

He used his brain for a definite purpose — “ to 
think out thoughts with,” as he was wont to 
say, and if his heart approved of them they were 
right, and he could no more change them than a 
tree could change its bark or its foliage. 

As yet the arts and allies of the flatterer had 
no power over him. He was content and without 
any false notion of his own importance. 


XVIII 


HAT a fair of American citizen- 
ship was on its way to Hillsbor- 
ough this morning of the Fourth 
of July! They that now crowded 
the train were like others travelling 
on all the main thoroughfares of the county — 
farmers and their wives, rustic youths and their 
sweethearts, mill-hands and mill-owners, team- 
sters, sawyers, axemen, guides, and storekeepers. 
They were celebrating a day’s release from the 
tyranny of Business, and were not deeply moved 
by the tyranny which their grandfathers had 
suffered. History, save that of the present hour, 
did not much concern them. 

They were mostly sound-hearted men. There 
were some who, in answer to the charge that a 
local statesman had got riches in the Legislature, 
were wont to say, “He’d be a fool if he hadn’t.” 
He was “ a good fellow,” anyhow, and they loved 
a good fellow. All the men of wealth and place 
and power were in his favor, and had practised 
i74 



Silas Strong 

upon them the subtle arts of the friend-maker. 
They would not have accepted “ a bribe ” — these 
good people now on their way to Hillsborough — 
but they could get all kinds of favors from Joe 
Socket and Pop Migley and Horace Dumay and 
other henchmen of the wealthy boss and legis- 
lator. They had yielded to the insidious bri- 
beries of friendship — warm greetings and hand- 
shakes, loans, small sinecures, compliments, 
pledges of undying esteem over clinking glasses, 
and similar condescension. They loved the for- 
est and were sorry to see it go, but many of them 
got their bread-and-butter by its downfall — 
directly or indirectly — and then Socket, Du- 
may, and Migley were nothing more or less than 
lumber, pulp, and water-power personified. They 
were like the lords and barons of the olden time 
• — less arrogant but more powerful. Indeed, 
Strong was right — the tyrant of the modern 
world is that ruthless giant that he called “ Busi- 
ness,” and his nobles are coal, iron, cotton, wool, 
food, power, paper, and lumber. These people 
on the edge of the woodland were slaves of 
power, paper, and lumber. With able and de- 
signing chiefs this great triumvirate gently drove 
the good people this way and that, and there 
was a little touch of irony in this journey of the 
i7S 


Silas Strong 

latter to celebrate their freedom and indepen- 
dence. 

One who knew them could not help feeling 
that the old martial spirit of the day was wholly 
out of harmony with their own. They were a 
peace-loving people, purged of their fathers’ 
hatred, and roars of defiance found no echo in 
any breast — save those overheated by alcohol. 

Some wore flannel shirts and the livery of a 
woodsman’s toil; some, unduly urged, no doubt, 
by a wife or sister, had ventured forth in more 
conventional attire. They sat, as if posing for 
a photograph, galled, hot, gloomy, suspicious, 
self-suppressed, silent, their necks hooped in 
linen, their bodies resisting the tight embrace 
of new attire. In the crowd were a number to 
whom the reaping of the ruined hills, on either 
side of the train, had brought wealth and an 
air of proprietorship. Most of the crowd were 
in high spirits. The sounds of loud talk and 
laughter and the rankling smoke of cheap cigars 
filled the air above them. A lank youth under 
a dark, broad-brimmed hat, tilted backward, 
so as neither to conceal nor disarrange a rare 
embellishment of curls upon his brow T , entered 
the car with another like him. His hair had 
the ginger-brown, ringletudinous look of spaniel 
176 


Silas Strang 

fur. He began to whistle loudly and, as it 
would seem, prelusively. In a moment he was 
in full song on a ballad of the cheap theatres, 
with sentiment like his hair — frank, bold, oily, 
and outreaching. 

As the train stopped at Hillsborough, Strong 
rose and put on his pack and left with the crowd, 
coon in hand. The sidewalks were crowded, and 
Strong took the centre of the street. There, at 
least, was comparative seclusion. 

Silas had not travelled a block when, all un- 
expectedly, he became a centre of attraction. 
A group of whining dogs gathered about him, 
peering wistfully at the coon. They were shortly 
reinforced by a number of small boys, which grew 
with astonishing rapidity. Cries of curiosity and 
derision rose around him. Sportsmen who had 
visited his camp and who recognized him shouted 
their greeting to the “ Emperor of the Woods.” 
A “ swisher” of some prominence in the little 
school of sportsmanship at Lost River came and 
dispersed the boys. The Emperor kicked at a 
dog and ran a little way in pursuit of him. He 
came back and set down the coon-cage and 
shook hands with his pupil. Immediately a dog, 
approaching from behind, sprang at the cage and 
tipped it over, and leaped upon it and began 
177 


Silas Strong 

to claw. Strong seized and flung the dog away, 
and as he righted the cage its door came open 
and the coon escaped. Dodging his enemy, the 
little animal sought refuge in a thicket of peo- 
ple. Being pursued by dogs, and accustomed 
also to avoid peril by climbing, he straightway 
climbed, not a tree, but a tall sapling of a youth, 
from which the others broke away in a panic. 
They were opposite a little park, and the youth, 
not daring to lay hold of the animal, fled among 
the trees, pursued by Strong and two dogs and 
a throng of brave spirits who shouted informa- 
tion as to what he had best do. 

For half a moment the frightened coon clung 
on a shoulder, his tail in the air, growling at the 
dogs. The latter leaped up at him, and he be- 
gan to feel for more altitude. The youth, who 
had some knowledge of the nature of coons, ran 
to the nearest tree. Quickly the coon sprang 
upon it and scrambled far out of reach. He ran 
up the smooth shaft of elm and settled on a 
swaying bough some forty feet above ground. 
A crowd of people were now looking up at 
him. 

“Coon in a cage is worth two in a tree,” a 
man shouted. 

Strong sat down beneath the tree and lighted 
178 


Silas Strong 

his pipe and “thought out” another bit of wis- 
dom for his memorandum-book. It was : 

4 ‘ Coon on yer shoulder worth less ’n what he is any- 
where.* * 

He sat in meditation — as if, indeed, he were 
resting in the wilderness. A cannon, not a hun- 
dred feet away, shook the windows of Hills- 
borough with a loud explosion for every star on 
the flag. A perpetual fusillade of fire-crackers 
seemed to suggest the stripes. Accustomed to 
woodland silences, the Emperor's feeling was, in 
a measure, like that of his coon. The “ morning 
salute” ended presently, and then he uttered an 
exclamation which indicated clearly that he had 
been losing ground in his late struggle with 
Satan. 

One of the guides with whom he had sat in 
the store at Pitkin came near. “ Had yer tooth 
drawed?” was the question he put to the Em- 
peror. 

Strong was now looking at the empty cage. 
“ Had my coon d-drawed,” he answered. 

“Where is he?” 

“Up-s-stairs.” Strong pointed in the direc- 
tion of the coon's refuge. 

Silas was now the centre of an admiring com- 
179 


Silas Strong 

pany. His former pupil had brought the presi- 
dent of the corporation of Hillsborough to meet 
him. The official invited Strong to participate 
in the games. The Emperor was willing to do 
anything to oblige, and walked with his new 
acquaintance to the public square. 

A trial at lifting and carrying was the first 
number on the programme. The contestants 
leaned, with hands behind them, while others 
on a raised platform began to heap bags of oats 
upon their backs and shoulders. Loaded to the 
limit of their strength, they carried the burden 
as far as they were able and flung it down. One 
after another tried, and the last carried nine 
bags a distance of seven feet and was rewarded 
with many cheers. 

It was Strong’s turn now. He bent his broad 
back, and the loaders began to burden him. 
At ten they stopped, but Strong called for more. 
Three others were heaped upon him, and slowly 
he began to move away. One could see only 
his legs beneath his burden, which towered far 
above him. Ten feet beyond the farthest mark 
he bore the bags and let them down. The peo- 
ple began cheering, and many came to shake his 
hand and feel the sinews in his arms and shoul- 
ders. Of the trial at scale-lifting a woodsman 
180 


Silas Strong 

who stood near gave this illuminating descrip- 
tion, “ When they all got through, Strong put on 
two hundred more an’ raised his neck an’ lifted, 
an’ the bar come up like a trout after a fly.’' 

Silas Strong stood, his coat off, his trousers 
tucked in his boots, looking soberly at the peo- 
ple who cheered him. One eye was wide open, 
the other partly closed. There were wrinkles 
above his wide eye, and his faded felt hat, tilted 
backward and to one side, left his face uncov- 
ered. He had a new and grateful sense of being 
“ahead,” but seemed to wonder if so much 
brute strength were altogether creditable. 

Master was to address the people, and Strong 
was invited to sit behind the speaker’s table 
with the select of the county. He accompanied 
the president of the corporation to the platform 
in the park, his pack-basket on his arm. More 
than a thousand men and women had gathered 
in front of them when the chairman introduced 
the young orator. 

The speech delighted Silas Strong, and he 
summed it up in his old memorandum-book as 
follows : 

“ folks cant be no better than the air they brethe 

“ roots of a plant are in the ground but the roots of a 
man are in his lungs 

181 


Silas Strong 

“whair the woods ar plenty the air is strong an folks 
are stout an supple like our forefathers when they 
licked the British them days they got a powrful crop 
of folks sometimes fifteen in a famly 

“now folks live under a sky two feet above their 
heads an take their air secont handed an drink at the 
bar instead of the spring an eat more than what 
they earn an travel on wheels an think so much of 
their own helth they aint got no time to think of 
their countrys 

“when a man’s mind is on his stummick it cant be 
any where else 

“brains warnt made to digest vittles with old 
fashioned ways is best.” 

After the address Strong went home to din- 
ner with Congressman Wilbert, the leading citi- 
zen of Hillsborough. That little town still re- 
tained the democratic spirit of old times. There 
one had only to be clean and honest to be re- 
spectable, and the mighty often sat at meat 
with the lowly. Strong declined the invitation 
at first, on the plea that he had fried cakes in 
his pack-basket, and yielded only after some 
urging. 

The statesman’s wife received the hunter 
cordially and presented him to her daughter. 
The girl led Strong aside and began to entertain 
him. He had lost his easy, catlike stride, his 
unconscious control of bone and muscle. He 
182 


Silas Strong 

looked and felt as if he were carrying himself 
on his own back. He seemed to be balancing 
his head carefully, for fear it would fall off, and 
had treated his hands like detached sundries in 
a camp - outfit by stuffing them into the side 
pockets of his coat. Gradually he limbered in 
his chair and settled down. His confidence grew, 
and soon he “ horsed ” one knee upon the other 
and flung his hands around it as if to bind an 
invisible burden resting on his lap. He carried 
this objective treatment of his own person to 
such an extreme that he seemed even to be 
measuring his breath and to find little oppor- 
tunity for cerebration. When the young lady 
addressed him he often answered with the old 
formulas of “I tnum!” or “T-y-ty!” They 
eased the responsibility of his tongue, and, 
without seriously committing him, expressed a 
fair degree of interest and surprise. 

At the table Strong behaved himself with the 
utmost conservatism. They treated him very 
tenderly, and he found relief in the fact that 
his embarrassment seemed not to be observed. 
He thought it the part of politeness to refuse 
nearly everything that was offered and to eat 
in a gingerly fashion. 

The Congressman had often heard of Silas 
183 


Silas Strong 

and gave him many compliments, and finally 
asked what, in his opinion, should be done to 
protect the forest. Briefly Strong gave his 
views, and the other seemed to agree with him. 

“ I’ll do what I can for the woods and for you, 
too,” said the statesman. “You ought to be a 
warden with a good salary.” 

These kindly assurances flattered the “ Em- 
peror of the Woods.” Insidiously the great 
world power was making its most potent appeal 
to him. 

“I may ask you for a favor now and then,” 
said Wilbert. “I’d be glad if you’d do what 
you could to help Migley. He needs the vote 
of your town.” 

Strong knew not what to say^ “M-mind’s 
m-made up,” he stammered, after a little pause. 
When his mind was “made up” he had nothing 
further to do but obey its will. The other did 
not quite comprehend his meaning. 

Strong in his embarrassment had put too 
much tabasco sauce on his meat. He blew, ac- 
cording to his custom in moments of distress, 
and took a drink of water. He looked thought- 
fully at the small cylinder of glass. He tried to 
read its label. 

“Small b-bore,” he remarked, presently. 

184 


Silas Strong 

“Sh-shoots w-well,” he added, after a moment 
of reflection. 

Strong had begun to think of his coon, now 
clinging in a tree-top. Suddenly he had be- 
come too proud to try to sell him, but he could 
not bear to abandon his old pet. So while the 
others talked together he began to contrive 
against the dogs of Hillsborough. As he was 
about to leave, he asked Mrs. Wilbert where he 
could buy “one o’ them 1-little r-red guns/’ by 
which he meant a bottle of tabasco sauce. She 
immediately sent a servant to bring one, which 
the Emperor accepted with her compliments. 
His host went with him to a store where Strong 
invested some of his prize-money in “C’ris’mus 
presents” — so he called them — for Sinth and the 
“little fawns,” filling his pack well above the 
brim. 

Then, forthwith, Strong proceeded to the coon’s 
refuge, in the public park, where, with the aid 
of a Roman-candle, as he explained to Sinth in 
the privacy of their cook - tent, he made the 
coon “1-let go all holts.” The animal had been 
clinging high in the old elm, and, being stunned 
by his fall, Strong caught and held him firmly 
by the nape of the neck while he covered him 
with an armor of liquid fire from the tabasco 


Silas Strong 

bottle. The fur of back and neck and shoulders 
had now the power to inflict misery sharper 
than a serpent’s tooth. 

“D-Dick,” he whispered, “Strong is ’shamed 
o’ y-you. He c-can’t ’sociate n-no more with 
c-coons in this v-village. But he won’t let ye 
git t-tore up.” 

Strong carried his coon out of the park and 
let him down. In Hillsborough popular en- 
thusiasm had turned from revelry to refresh- 
ment. The crowd, having retired to home and 
hostelry, had left the streets nearly deserted. 

Strong’s coon set out in the direction of the 
river, and soon a bull-dog laid hold of him. The 
dog gave the coon a shake, and began, as it were, 
to lose confidence. He dropped the hot-furred 
animal, shook his head, and tarried the tenth 
part of a second, as if to make a note of the coon’s 
odor for future reference, and then ran with all 
speed to the river. He heeded not the call of his 
master or the jeering of a number of small boys. 
They were no more to him than the idle wind. 

The coon proceeded on his way to the woods. 
Farther on three other dogs bounded into 
trouble, and rushed for water. The coon passed 
two bridges and made his way across an open 
field in the direction of Turner’s wood. 

186 


Silas Strong 

Strong, whose hunger had not been satisfied, 
bought some cake and pie, and made for open 
country where he sat down by the road-side. 
Tree-tops above him were full of chattering 
birds, driven out of town probably by its hide- 
ous uproar. 

The Emperor, having appeased his hunger, 
took half an hour for reflection. Before the 
end of it came he began for the first time in his 
life to suffer the penalty of idleness and high 
living. Indigestion, the bane of towns and cities, 
had taken hold of him. Before leaving he made 
these entries in his little book: 

“ July the 4 

“This aint no place for Strong 

“Man might as well be in Ogdensburg* as have Og- 
densburg in him. 

“ Strong’s coon snaked out of his cage contrived to 
git even also coon made free and independent.” 

His revenge was of such lasting effect that, 
some say, for a long time thereafter dogs in 
Hillsborough fled terror-stricken at the sight of a 
coon-skin overcoat. 

* It should be remembered that with the woods-loving 
and wholly mistaken Emperor, Ogdensburg meant nothing 
less than hell. 


XIX 


E AN WHILE Soeky and Sue, in 
Sunday costume, had gone out 
with their aunt for a holiday 
picnic in the forest. Sinth had 
been busy until ten o'clock pre- 
paring a sumptuous dinner of roasted wild fowl 
and jelly, of frosted cake and sugared berries 
and crab-apple tarts. They went to the moss- 
covered banks of a little brook over in Pepper- 
mint Valley, half a mile or so from the camp. 
Master’s man carried their dinner and blankets, 
upon which they could repose without impair- 
ing the splendor of their dress. Sinth had put 
on her very best attire — a sacred silk gown and 
Paisley shawl which had come on a cheerful 
Christmas Day from her sister. 

“Might as well show ’em to the birds an’ 
squirrels,” said she. “ There ain’t nobody else t’ 
dress up for ’cept the little fawns.” 

The man left them, to return later for their 
camp accessories. Sinth played “I spy” and 
1 88 



Silas Strong 

“ Hide the penny ” and other games of her child- 
hood with Socky and Sue. She had brought 
some old story-papers with her, and when the 
little folks grew weary they sat down beside 
her on the blankets while she read a tale. To 
her all things were “so” which bore the sacred 
authority of print, and she read aloud in a slow, 
precise, and responsible manner. 

It was a thunderous tale she was now reading 
— a tale of bloody swords and high - sounding 
oaths and epithets. Socky began to feel his 
weapon. Master had shaped a handle on a 
piece of lath and presented it for a sword to the 
little “ Duke of Hillsborough.” Since then it had 
trailed behind the boy, fastened by a string to 
his belt. He sat listening with a serious, thought- 
ful look upon his face. At the climax of the 
tale he raised his weapon. Presently, unable to 
restrain his heroic impulse, he sprang at Zeb, 
sword in hand, and smote him across the ribs, 
shouting, “Defend yourself!” Zeb retreated 
promptly and took refuge in a fallen tree-top, 
out of which he peered, his hair rising. Soon he 
satisfied himself that the violence of the Duke 
was not a serious matter. Socky ran upon him, 
waving his sword and crying, in a loud voice, 
“You're a coward, sir!” Zeb rushed through 
189 


Silas Strong 

the ferns, back and forth around the boy, growl- 
ing and grimacing as if to show that he could 
be a swashbuckler himself. 

On his merry frolic he ran wide in thickets 
of young fir. Suddenly he began barking and 
failed to return. They called to him, but he 
only barked the louder, well out of sight be- 
yond the little trees. Socky went to seek him, 
and in a moment the barking ceased, but 
neither dog nor boy came in sight of the others. 
Sinth followed with growing alarm. 

Back in a mossy glade, not a hundred feet 
from where they had been sitting, she stopped 
suddenly and grew pale with surprise. There 
sat a beautiful maiden looking down at the boy, 
who lay in her arms. Sue, who had followed her 
aunt, now sprang forward with a cry of delight. 
The maiden rose, her cheeks crimson with em- 
barrassment. 

“Oh, aunt,” said the boy, as he clung fondly 
to the hand of Edith Dunmore, “this is the 
beautiful lady.” 

“What’s your name?” Sinth demanded. 

“ Edith Dunmore.” The girl’s voice had a 
note of sadness. 

“My land! Do you go wanderin’ all over 
the woods like a bear?” Sinth inquired. 

190 


Silas Strong 

The maiden turned away and made no an- 
swer. 

“Land sakes alive! you ’ain’t got no business 
goin’ around these woods an’ meetin’ strange 
men.” 

“Oh, silly bird!” croaked the little crow from 
a bough near them. 

“Mercy!” exclaimed Sinth, as she looked up 
at the ribboned crow. “It’s enough to make 
the birds talk.” 

There were tears in the maiden’s eyes, and 
the children glanced from her to their aunt, 
sadly and reprovingly. 

Sinth, now full of tender feeling, put her arms 
around the neck of the girl in a motherly fashion. 
“ Poor, poor child !” said she, her voice trembling. 
“I’ve laid awake nights thinkin’ of you.” 

Something in the tone and touch of the 
woman brought the girl closer. Another great 
need of her nature was for a moment satisfied. 
She leaned her head upon the shoulder of Sinth, 
and her heart confessed its loneliness in tears 
and broken phrases. 

“ I — I followed you. I couldn’t — couldn’t help 
it,” said she. 

“Poor girl!” Sinth went on, as she patted the 
head of the maiden. “I’ve scolded Mr. Master. 

191 


Silas Strong 

He oughter let you alone, ’less he’s in love, which 
I wouldn’t wonder if he was.” 

“Ah-h-hl” croaked the bird, as if to attract 
his mistress. 

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Sinth, looking up 
at the crow with moist eyes. '‘That bird is 
like a human bein’. Hush, child, you mus’ 
come an’ help us celebrate. Come on now; 
we’ll all set down an’ have our dinner.” 

Socky ana Sue stood by the knees of the 
lady looking up at her. 

Gently the woman led her new acquaintance 
to their little camp, and bade her sit with the 
children. Sinth had a happy look in her face 
while she hurried about getting dinner ready. 

“ Jes’ straighten the end, please — that’s right,” 
said she as Edith Dunmore put a helping hand 
on the snowy table-cloth. 

Sinth began to spread the dishes, and the 
maiden furtively embraced Socky and Sue. 
“My land! you do like childern — don’t ye? So 
do I. They’s jes’ nothin’ like ’em in this world.” 

“Dinner’s ready,” said Sinth, when all the 
dainties had been set forth. “ Heavens an’ 
earth! I’m so glad t’ see a woman I could lay 
right down an’ bawl.” 

“You have made me as happy as a young 
192 


Silas Strong 

fawn,” said Miss Dunmore. “I am not afraid 
of you or the children.” 

‘‘Are you afraid of him f” 

The lady looked down, blushing, and al- 
most whispered her answer. “ Yes ; I am 
afraid.” 

“ He wouldn’t hurt ye — he’s jest as gentle as 
a lamb,” said Sinth. She paused to cut the 
cake, and added, with a far-away look in her 
eyes, “Still an’ all, I dunno what I’d do if he 
was to make love to me.” 

Sinth ate in silence for a moment and re- 
marked, dreamily, “ Men are awful cur’is critters 
when they git love in ’em.” 

For a little, one might have heard only the 
chatter of the children and the barking of Zeb. 
By-and-by the maiden said, “I am sure that 
Mr. Master is — is a good man.” 

“No nicer in the world,” Sinth answered. 
“Pleasant spoke, an’ he don’t set around as if 
he wanted ye t’ breathe fer him. He’ll be a 
good provider, too.” 

After a few moments the children took their 
cake and went away to share it with Zeb and 
the tame crow. 

“ Do you — do you think he would care to see 
me again?” Edith Dunmore asked, blushing and 
i93 


Silas Strong 

looking down as she touched a wild rose on her 
breast. 

“ ’Course he would,” Sinth answered, prompt- 
ly. “Can’t sleep nights, an’ looks kind o’ sick 
an’ dreamy, like a man with a felon.” Sinth 
looked into the eyes of the girl and added, so- 
berly, “ I guess you're in love with him fast 
enough.” 

“I do not know,” said Miss Dunmore, with a 
sigh. “ I — I know that all the light of the day 
is in his eyes — that I am lonely when I cannot 
find him.” 

Sinth nodded. “ It’s love,” said she, decisive- 
ly — “the real, genuwine, pure quill. Don’t ye 
let him know it.” 

She sat looking down for a moment with a 
dreamy look in her eyes. “I know what ’tis,” 
she went on, sadly. “ Had a beau myself once. 
Went off t’ the war.” After a little pause she 
added, “He never come back — shot dead in bat- 
tle.” She began to pick up the dishes. Having 
stowed them in a pail, she turned and said, in a 
solemn manner: “He was goin’ t’ bring me a 
gold ring with a shiny purple stone in it. Not that 
I’d ’a’ cared for that if I could have had him.” 

That old look of sickliness and resignation 
returned to the face of Sinth. 

194 


Silas Strong 

“Folks has to give fer their country,” she 
added soon. “ My father an’ my gran ’father an’ 
my oldest brother an’ my true love all died in 
the wars. I hope you’ll never have to give so 
much.” 

A great, earth-quaking roar from far down the 
valley of Lost River sped over the hills, and 
shook the towers of the wilderness and broke 
the peace of that remote chamber in which they 
stood. It was Business breaking through the 
side of a mountain to make a trail for the iron 
horse. 

“Blastin’!” Sinth exclaimed. 

“It’s the king of the world coming through 
the woods — so my father tells me,” said Miss 
Dunmore. 

Then, as if fearful that he might arrive that 
day, she rose quickly and said : 

“I — must go home. I must go home.” 

Sinth kissed her, and the children came and 
bade her good-bye and stood calling and waving 
their hands as Edith Dunmore, with the ribboned 
crow, slowly went up the trail to Catamount. 


XX 


N his way home at night Strong 
was really nearing the City of 
Destruction, like that pilgrim of 
old renown. Shall we say that 
Satan had filled the man with 
his own greatness the better to 
work upon him ? However that may be, a new 
peril had beset the Emperor. 

For long he had been conscious only of his 
faults. Now the thought of his merits had 
caused him to forget them. Turning home- 
ward, the world in his view consisted of two 
parts — Silas Strong and other people. One re- 
grets to say it was largely Silas Strong — the 
great lifter, the guide and hunter whose fame 
he had not until then suspected. 

Master took the train with him that even- 
ing. 

This old-fashioned man — Silas Strong — whose 
mind was, in the main, like that of his grand- 
father — like that, indeed, of the end of the eigh- 
196 



thoughts of 


Silas Strong 

teenth century — sat beside one who represented 
the very latest ideals of the Anglo-Saxon. 

They were both descended from good pioneer 
ancestry, but the grandfather of one had moved 
to Boston, while the grandfather of the other had 
remained in the woods. The boulevard and the 
trail had led to things very different. 

They had sat together only a few moments 
when the two Migleys entered the car. These 
ministers of the great king got to work at once. 

“Hello!” said the elder of them, addressing 
Master. “I congratulate you. I told my son 
it was a great speech. Ask him if I didn’t.” 

“I enjoyed your speech,” said young Migley. 
“ But there’s no use talking to us about saving 
the wilderness. If we did as you wish, we’d 
have nothing to do but twirl our thumbs.” 

“On the contrary, you’d have a permanent 
business, whereas your present course will soon 
lead you to the end of it. I would have you cut 
nothing below twelve inches at the butt, and 
get your harvest as often as you can find it.” 

“ ’Twouldn’t pay,” said “Pop” Migley, with 
a shake of his head. 

“You condemn the plan without trial,” Mas- 
ter continued. “Anyhow, if an owner wants 
his value at once, let us have a law under which 
197 


Silas Strong 

he can transfer his timber-land to the State on 
a fair appraisal.” 

“ The State wouldn’t pay us half we can make 
by cutting it. 0 ’ 

“Probably not, but you’d have your time 
and capital for other uses. Then, too, you 
should think of the public good. You’re rich 
enough.” 

“ But not fool enough,” said young Mr. Migley, 
in a loud voice. 

The train stopped to take water, and those 
near were now turned to listen. 

“ I thought you were ambitious to be a public 
servant,” said Master, calmly. 

“But not as a professor of moral philosophy.” 
This declaration of the young candidate was 
greeted with laughter. 

“And, of course, not as a professor of moral 
turpitude,” said the woods lover. “The public 
is not to be wholly forgotten.” 

“ I’m for my part of the public, first, last, and 
always,” young Migley answered. 

It is notable that lawless feeling — especially 
after it has passed from sire to son — some day 
loses the shame which has covered and kept it 
from insufferable offence. Two or three citizens 
who sat near began to whisper and shake their 
198 


Silas Strong 

heads. One of them spoke out loudly and in* 
dignantly : 

“His part of the public is mostly himself. 
He is trying to buy his way into the Assembly, 
and I hope he’ll fail.” 

There were hot words between the Migleys and 
their accuser, until the lumbermen left the car. 

Soon Master fell asleep. Strong took out his 
old memorandum-book and went over sundry 
events and reflections. 

When Master awoke the Emperor still sat 
with the worn book in his hands. 

“I’ve been asleep,” said the young man. 
“What have you been doing?” 

“Th-thinkin’ out a few th- thoughts,” Strong 
answered, as he put the book in his pocket. 

The Emperor began to speak of the Congress- 
man’s courtesies in a tone of self-congratulation. 

Master laughed heartily. “It was a pretty 
little plot,” said he. “Those common fellows 
couldn’t manage you, and they passed you on. 
I’ll bet he asked you to help Migley.” 

Strong smiled and nodded. 

“You haven’t made me any promise, and I 
want you to feel free to do what you think best,” 
said the young man. 

The train pulled into Bees’ Hill in the edge of 
199 


Silas Strong 

the wilderness, and they left it and took quarters 
at the Rustic Inn. 

Bees’ Hill was a new lumber settlement where 
there were two mills, three inns, a number of 
stores, and a post-office. The bar-room was 
crowded with brawny mill-hands from across 
the border, in varying stages of intoxication. 
The inn itself was full of the reek of cheap to- 
bacco and the sound of cheaper oaths. The 
most offensive in the crowd were of the new 
generation of back-country Americans. Their 
boastfulness and profanity were in full flood. 
They used the sacred names with a cheerful, 
glib familiarity, as if they were only saying 
“ Bill” or “Joe.” 

The town had begun to ruin the woodsman 
as well as the woods. 

Here were some of the sons of the pioneers — 
mostly “guides” and choremen of abundant 
leisure. Every day they were “dressed up,” 
and sat about the inn like one who patiently 
tries his luck at a fishing-hole. They had dis- 
covered themselves and were like a child with 
its first doll. They had, as it were, torn them- 
selves apart and put themselves together again. 
They had experimented with cologne, hair -oil, 
poker, colored neckties, hotel fare, and execra- 


200 


Silas Strong 

ble whiskey. They were in love with pleasure 
and had sublime faith in luck. They spent their 
time looking and listening and talking and 
primping and dreaming of sudden wealth and 
kitchen-maids. 

Strong and Master stood a moment looking 
at a noisy company of youths at the bar. 

“They speak of the President by his first 
name, and are rather free with the Creator,” said 
Master. 

“J-jus’ little mehoppers,” Strong remarked, 
with a look of pity. In his speech a conceited 
fellow, who spoke too frequently of himself, 
was always a “mehopper.” 

“ Large heads !” Master exclaimed, as he turned 
away. 

“ Like a b-balsam, ’ ’ Strong stammered. * ‘ B-big 
top an’ little r-roots.” 

“And they can’t stand against the wind,” 
said Master. 

Before he went to bed the Emperor made these 
entries in his memorandum-book : 

‘ ‘ Strong says he had just as soon be seen with a coon 
as a congressman also that a fool gits so big in his 
own eyes he dont never dast quarrell with himself 
Strong got to mehoppin. he has fit and conkered 

“God never intended fer a man to see himself er else 
he’d have set his eyes difernt.” 


XXI 


N the morning, a little after sun- 
rise, Strong and Master set out 
across the State land stretching 
from the railroad to Lost River, a 
distance of some fourteen miles. 
Not an hour’s walk from the station, at Bees’ 
Hill, they passed another lumber job, where, 
on the land of the State, nearly a score of men 
were engaged felling the tall pines and hauling 
them to skidways. The Emperor flung off his 
pack and hurried to the workers. 

“Who’s j-job?” he inquired. 

“Migley’s. We’re working on a contract for 
the dead timber.” 

“Ca-call that dead?” Strong waved his hand 
in the direction of a number of trees, newly 
felled, which had been as healthy as any in the 
forest. “Q-quit, er I’ll go to-day an’ c-com- 
plain o’ ye,” he added. 

“You can go to if you like,” said the 

foreman, angrily. 



202 


Silas Strong 

Quicker than the jaws of a trap Strong’s hand 
caught the boss by the back of his neck and flung 
him headlong. 

The dealer in hasty speech rose and took a 
step towards the Emperor and halted. 

“B -better think it over,” said Strong, coolly. 

The boss turned to his men. He shouted at 
some eight or ten of them who had come near, 
“ Are you going to stand there and see me treated 
that way.” 

“You fight your own battles,” said one of 
them. “For my part, I think the Emp’ror is 
right.” 

“So do I,” said another. “I’ve pulled the 
brier for you as long as I want to.” 

The rest of the “gang” stood still and said 
nothing. 

“I’ll go and see Migley about this,” declared 
the foreman, who was walking hurriedly in the 
direction of his camp. He turned and shouted 
to the toilers, “You fellers can go ‘ histe the 
turkey.’ ” 

One who had to pick up his effects and get 
out was told to “ histe the turkey ” there in the 
woods. 

Strong and Master had a few words with the 
men and resumed their journey to Lost River. 

203 


Silas Strong 

As they walked on, a brush whip hit the Em-' 
peror in the face. He stopped and broke it 
and flung it down with a word of reproof. He 
often did that kind of thing — as if the trees and 
bushes were alive and on speaking terms with 
him. Sometimes he would stop and compli- 
ment them for their beauty. 

Soon the young man spoke. 

“ After all, the law is no better than they who 
make it,” said he. 

The Emperor turned as if not sure of his 
meaning. 

“Bribery!” said Master. “Migley got a law 
passed which provides a fine so low for cutting 
State timber that he can pay it and make 
money.” 

“B-Business is k-king,” said Strong, thought- 
fully. He perceived how even the State itself 
had become a subject of the great ruler. 

“And Satan is behind the throne,” Master 
went on. “Down goes the forest and the will 
of the people. I tell you, Strong, the rich thief 
is a great peril; so many souls and bodies are 
mortgaged by his pay-roll and his favor. Look 
out for him. He can make you no better than 
beef or mutton.” 

They proceeded on their journey in silence, 
204 


Silas Strong 

and, when the sun had turned westward and 
they sat down to drink and rest on the shore of 
Lost River, Strong began to write, slowly and 
carefully, in his old memorandum-book, some 
thoughts intended for his future guidance. And 
he wrote as follows • 

“July the 5 

“Strong says ‘ Man that advises other folks to go to 
hell is apt to git thair first.’ 

‘ ‘ also that ‘ a man who loses his temper aint got nothin 
left but a fool.’ Strong is shamed. 

‘ ‘ ’Taint nuff to look a gift hoss in the mouth better 
turn him rong side out and see how hes lined.’’ 


Having “thought out” these thoughts and set 
them down, the Emperor rose and put the book 
in his pocket and hurried up the familiar trail, 
followed by his companion. A little farther on 
they met Socky, Sue, and Sinth. 

“ Merry C’ris’mus !” the Emperor shouted as he 
caught sight of them. He put his great hands 
upon their backs and drew the boy and girl 
close against his knees. “My leetle f-fawns!” 
he said, with a chuckle of delight, as he clum- 
sily patted them. His eyes were damp with 
joy; his hands trembled in their eagerness 
to open the pack. He untied the strings and 
205 


Silas Strong 

uncovered the rocking-horse and other trin- 
kets. 

“Whoa!” he shouted, as he put the little, 
dapple-gray, wooden horse on the smooth trail 
and set him rocking. 

Cries of delight echoed in that green aisle of 
the woods. Strong put the children on the 
back of the wooden horse and gave a brass 
trumpet to Socky and buckled a girdle of silver 
bells around the waist of Sue. Then he put 
on his pack, lifted horse and children, and 
bore them into Lost River camp. The laugh- 
ter of the young man joined that of the chil- 
dren. 

“Silas Strong!” Sinth exclaimed, as the Em- 
peror unloaded in front of the cook-tent. 

“P-present!” he answered, promptly. 

“Can’t hear myself think,” said she, with a 
suggestion of the old twang in her voice. 

“N-now, t-try,” said Silas Strong, as he gave 
her a little package. 

The expression of her face changed quickly. 
With slow but eager hands she undid the pack- 
age. Her mouth opened with surprise when 
she discovered a ring with a shiny, purple stone 
in it. 

“G-gold an’ amethys’!” the Emperor 
206 


ex- 


Silas Strong 

claimed, calmly and tenderly, his voice mellowed 
by affection. 

“Gold an’ amethyst,” she repeated, solemnly. 

“Uh-huh!” It was a low, affectionate sound 
of affirmation from the Emperor, made with his 
mouth closed. 

Her lips trembled, her face changed color, 
her eyes filled. It was oddly pathetic that so 
vain a trifle should have so delighted her — - 
homely and simple as she was. Since her girl- 
hood she had dreamed of a proud but impossible 
day that should put upon her finger a gold ring 
with a shiny, purple stone in it. Strong knew 
of her old longing. He knew that she had never 
had half a chance in this world of unequal bur- 
dens, and he felt for her. 

“I tol’ ye,” said he, in a voice that trembled 
a little. “B-better times.” 

She looked down at the ring, but did not an- 
swer. 

“That celebrates your engagement to the 
Magic Word,” said Master. 

She put it on her finger and gave it a glance of 
pride. Then she said, “Thank you, Silas,” and 
repaired to her quarters and sat down and 
wept. 

Her brother shouldered the axe and went to 
207 


Silas Strong 

cut some wood for the stove. She could hear 
him singing as he walked away slowly : 

“The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie, 
Where oft we have wandered an’ sung, 

An’ gone are the cool, shady rills, Maggie, 

Where you an’ I were young.” 


XXII 



HE next was one of the slow- 
coming days that seem to be de- 
layed by the great burden of their 
importance. With eager, impa- 
tient curiosity, Master had looked 
forward. Had he witnessed the first scenes of 
his own life comedy? If so, what would the 
next be? 

He rose early and dressed with unusual care, 
and was delighted to see a sky full of warm sun- 
light. The children were awake, and he helped 
them to put on their best attire while Sinth 
was getting breakfast in the cook-tent. Soon, 
with Socky and Sue in the little wagon, he was 
on the trail to Catamount Pond. Strong was 
to come later and bring their luncheon and be- 
gin the construction of a camp. 

On the way Master gathered wild flowers and 
adorned the children with gay colors of the 
forest floor. They found their canoe at the 
landing, and got aboard and pushed across the 
209 


Silas Strong 

still water. The sky had never seemed to him 
so beautiful and silent. From far up the moun- 
tain he could hear the twittering of a bird — 
no other sound. The margin of the pond was 
white with lilies in full bloom. Their perfume 
drifted in slow currents of air. His canoe moved 
in harmony with the silence. He could hear the 
bursting of tiny bubbles beneath his bow and 
around his paddle. 

Soon they came in sight of Birch Cove. There 
stood the moss -covered rock at the edge of 
the pond, but no maiden. Master felt a pang 
of disappointment. A fear grew in his heart. 
Would she not come again? Was it all a pleas- 
ant dream, and was there no such wonderful 
creature among the children of men? 

He shoved his bow on the little sand beach 
and helped the children ashore. 

In a moment they heard the voice of the crow 
laughing as if unable longer to control himself. 

“I’m going to find her,” said Socky, as he 
ran up the deer- trail followed by Sue. 

In a moment they gave a cry of delight. 
Edith Dunmore had stepped from behind a 
thicket, and, stooping, had put her arms around 
the children and was kissing them. The cun- 
ning crow walked hither and thither and picked 
210 


Silas Strong 

at the dead leaves and chattered like a child at 
play. 

“Oh, it has been such a long time!” said “the 
beautiful lady,” looking fondly into the faces of 
the little folk. “Where is he?” 

“Over there,” said Socky, pointing in the 
direction of the canoe. “I’ll go and tell him.” 

“No,” the maiden whispered, holding the boy 
closer. 

“ He wants to see you,” said the boy. 

“Me? — he would like to see me?” she asked. 

“He wants you to go home with us,” the boy 
went on, as if he were a kind of Cupid — an am- 
bassador of love between the two. He felt her 
hair curiously and with a sober face. 

“He has a beautiful watch an’ chain,” said 
Socky. 

“An’ a gol’ pencil,” said Sue. 

“ He’s rich,” the little Cupid urged, in a quaint 
tone of confidence. 

“What makes you think he wants me?” the 
girl asked. 

“He told Uncle Silas — didn’t he, Sue?” 

The face of Edith Dunmore was now glowing 
with color. She drew the children close to- 
gether in front of her. 

“Don’t tell him — don’t tell him I am here,” 


2 1 1 


Silas Strong 

said she, under her breath, as she trembled with 
excitement. 

“He wouldn’t hurt anybody,” Sue volun- 
teered. 

The pet crow had wandered in the direction 
of the canoe. Catching sight of Master, he ran 
away cawing. 

The young man started slowly up the trail. 
For a moment the girl hid her face behind the 
children. As he came near she rose and timidly 
gave him her hand. Quickly she turned away. 
His hand had been like those of the children — 
its touch had stirred new and slumbering depths 
in her. 

“ If — if you wish to be alone with the chil- 
dren,” he said, “I — I will go fishing.” 

For a little she dared not look in his face. But 
since her talk with Miss Strong she was deter- 
mined not to run away again for fear of him. 
She stood without speaking, her eyes downcast. 

“You do want her — don’t you, Uncle Robert ?” 
said the youthful ambassador. 

“You — you mustn’t ask me to tell secrets,” 
said the young man, as he turned away with a 
little laugh of embarrassment. 

“Is your father at home?” he asked. 

“He will return Saturday.” 


Silas Strong 

“ If he were willing, would — would you let me 
come to see you?” 

She hesitated, looking down at the green moss. 

“ I — I think not,” said she. 

‘‘You are right — you do not know me. But, 
somehow, I — I feel as if I knew you very well.” 

“Where do you live?” , 

“At Clear Lake in the summer — in New York 
City the rest of the year.” 

“I have never seen a city,” said she, turning 
and looking up at him. “My father has told 
me they are- full of evil men.” 

“There are both good and evil.” 

“Do you live in a palace?” 

“It is a very large house, although we do not 
call it a palace.” 

“Tell me — please tell me about it.” 

Then he told her of his home and life and 
people. She listened thoughtfully. When he 
had finished she said, “It must be like that 
wonderful land where people go when they die.” 

From far away they could hear the sound of a 
steam-whistle. Its echoes were dying in the 
near forest. 

“It is the whistle,” said she, looking away, 
her eyes wide open. “Every time I hear it I 
long to go. Sometimes I think it is calling me.” 

213 


Silas Strong 


Neither spoke for a moment. 

“ It comes from a distant village where there 
are many people,” she added. “Yesterday I 
climbed the mountain. Far away I could see 
the smoke and great white buildings.” 

“ I go to that village to-morrow,” said Master. 

She dropped her violets and looked down at 
them. 

“ Would you care if you never saw me again ?” 
he asked. 

She turned away and made no answer. 

In the silence that followed the young man 
was thinking what he should say next. She 
was first to speak, and her voice trembled a 
little. 

“Could I not see the children?” 

“If you would go to Lost River camp.” 

“I cannot,” said she, with a touch of despair 
in her voice. “My father has told me never to 
go there.” 

The young man thought a moment. She 
turned suddenly and looked up at him. 

“I know you are one of the good men,” she 
declared. 

“I am at least harmless,” he answered, with 
a smile, “ and — and you will make me happy if 
you will let me be your friend.” 

214 


Silas Strong 

“Tut, tut!” said the little crow as he flew 
into the tree above her head. 

“ I would try to make you happier,” the young 
man urged. 

“How?” she asked. 

“ I could tell you about many wonderful things. 
You ought not to stay here in the woods, ’ ’ he went 
on. “ Do you never think of the future?” 

She turned with a serious look in her eyes. 

He continued: “You cannot always live at 
Buckhorn. Your father is growing old.” 

“And he is well,” said she. “My father has 
always taught me that Death comes only to 
those who think of him.” 

In the distance they could hear the thunder 
of a falling tree. 

“Even the great trees have to bow before 
him,” said the young man. 

A moment of silence followed. 

“Let me be your friend,” he pleaded. 

She thought of what her grandmother had 
lately said to her and looked up at him sadly 
and thoughtfully. 

“But you — you would make me love you,” 
said she, “and when you were like the heart in 
my breast — so I could not live without you — 
then — then you would leave me.” 

215 


Silas Strong 

“Ah, but you do not know,” he answered. 
* I love you, and, even now, you are like the 
heart in my breast — I cannot live without you.” 

He approached her as he spoke and his voice 
trembled with emotion. She rose and ran a 
short distance up the trail and stopped. 

“ Will you not stay a little longer ?” he pleaded. 

She looked back at him with a curious interest 
and the least touch of fear in her eyes. She 
moved her head slowly, negatively, as if to tell 
him that she would love to stay but dared not. 

“May I see you here to-morrow?” he asked. 

She smiled and nodded and waved her hand 
to him and ran away. 

The crow laughed as if her haste were amus- 
ing. 

Master sat awhile after she had gone. He 
could not now endure the thought of leaving. 
He had planned to go with Strong and visit a 
number of woodsmen at their camps, and talk 
to the mill-hands in a few villages on the lower 
river. It was a formality not to be neglected 
if one would receive the votes of Pitkin, Till- 
bury, and Tifton. But suddenly he had be- 
come a candidate for greater happiness, he felt 
sure, than was to be found in politics. His 
election thereto depended largely on the vote of 
2x6 


Silas Strong 

one charming citizen of a remote corner of Till- 
bury township. Her favor had now become 
more important, in his view, than that of all 
the voters in the county. He would delay his 
canvass over the week’s end. 

So thinking, Master put off in his canoe with 
the children, gathering lilies until he came at last 
to the landing. There Sinth and the Emperor 
had just arrived. 

“ W-weasels,” said Strong, with a little nod in 
the direction of his sister, who stood on the shore. 

With him, as Master knew, the weasel had 
come to be a symbol of needless worry. 

“About what?” Master inquired. 

“ L-little f-fawns.” 

“Keep thinkin’ they’re goin’ to git lost or 
droWnded,” said she, giving each of the children 
a sugared cooky. 

“ Don’t worry. I shall always take good care 
of the children,” said Master. 

“I know that, but I keep a-thinkin’. Some- 
times I wisht there wasn’t any woods. I’m 
kind o’ sick of ’em, anyway.” 

Those little people with the dress, talk, and 
manners of the town — with a subtle power in 
their companionship, in their very dependence 
upon her, which the woman felt but was not 
217 


15 


Silas Strong 

able to understand — were surely leading her 
out of the woods. They had increased her 
work; they had annoyed her with ingenious 
mischief ; they had harassed her with questions, 
but they had awakened something in her which 
had almost perished in years of disappointment 
and utter loneliness. At first they had reminded 
her of her dead sister, and that, in a measure, 
had reconciled her to their coming. Later, the 
touch of their hands, the call of their voices, had 
made their strong appeal to her. Slowly she 
had begun to feel a mother’s fondness and re- 
sponsibility and a new interest in the world. 

Again sound-waves of the great whistle at 
Benson Falls swept wearily through the silence 
above them. 

“Makes me kind o* homesick,” said Sinth, as 
she listened thoughtfully. The Emperor had 
begun, just faintly, to entertain a feeling akin 
to hers. 

Master helped her up the hill on her way to 
camp with the children. He returned shortly 
and gave a hand to the building of his little 
home on the shore of Catamount. It was to be 
an open shanty, leaning on the ledge, its pole 
roof covered with tar-paper, its floor carpeted 
with balsam boughs. 


218 


Silas Strong 

“ Migleys have gone into c-camp at Nick 
Pond,” said the Emperor. “ ToP ’em I had t’ 
go w-with you t’-morrer.” 

“I’m sorry that we have to delay our trip a 
little,” said the young man. 

Strong laughed. 

“Mellered!” said he, merrily. He shook his 
head as he added, “You ain’t g-givin’ her no 
slack line.” 

After a little silence the hunter added: 

“Don’t t-twitch too quick.” 

It was a phrase gathered from his experience 
as a fisherman. 

The young man blushed but made no answer. 

“K-keep cool an’ use a 1-long line,” Strong 
added. 


XXIII 


morning, an hour after sun- 
rise, Master set out with the chil- 
dren. He promised Sinth that 
he would keep them near him 
and bring them back before noon, 
b in a cabin, and he stood on his 
hind feet peering out of the window and barking 
loudly as they went away. Master brought his 
blankets, rifle, books, and cooking outfit, for 
that day he was to take possession of the new 
camp. Strong had gone with the Migleys and 
their outfit in the trail to Nick. 

It was another hot, still morning, but the east- 
ern shore of Catamount lay deep under cool 
shadows when Master dropped his pack at the 
shanty. A deer stood knee-deep in the white 
border of lilies. It looked across the cove at 
them, walked slowly along the margin of the 
shaded water, and disappeared in the tamaracks. 
Master and the children crossed to Birch Cove, 




Silas Strong 

hallooed, but received no answer, and sat down 
upon the high, mossy bank. 

“Maybe she won’t come?” Socky suggested. 

“She will come soon,” said Master. 

Sue propped her little doll against a fern leaf 
and said: “Oh, dear! I wish she’d never go 
’way.” 

“She’s awful good” — that was the opinion of 
Socky. 

“She wouldn’t tell no falsehoods,” Sue sug- 
gested. 

“I wish she’d come an’ live with us; don’t 
you?” Socky queried, turning to Master. The 
little Cupid was searching for another arrow. 

“Wouldn’t dare say — you little busybody!” 
the young man replied. “You’d go and tell 
on me.” 

Both looked up at him soberly. Socky was 
first to speak. “ Where’bouts does ‘ the beauti- 
ful lady ’ live?” 

“Way off in the woods.” 

“At the home of the fairies?” 

“No, but on the road to it.” 

“ If she’d come an’ live with us, she wouldn’t 
have to fill no wood-box, would she?” Sue in- 
quired. 

“Or pick up chips,” Socky put in, brushing 


221 


Silas Strong 

one palm across the other with a look of dread. 
The children had discussed that problem in 
bed the night before. Their aunt had made 
them fill the wood-box and bring in a little 
basket of chips every night and morning. It 
went well enough for a day or two, but the task 
had begun to interrupt other plans. 

“Oh no,” said Master. “We’ll be good to 
her.” 

Socky was noting every look and word — 
nothing escaped him. He felt grateful to his 
young lieutenant, and sat for a little time look- 
ing dreamily into the air. Then, with thought- 
ful eyes, he felt the watch-chain of the young 
man. 

“You’d let her wear your watch — -wouldn’t 
you?” 

“Gladly.” 

“She could look at my aunt’s album,” Sue 
suggested, as she thought of the pleasures of 
the camp. 

Socky looked a bit doubtful. 

“She mustn’t git no grease on it or she’ll git 
spoke to,” Sue went on as she thought of the 
perils of the camp. 

“Uncle Silas has put the bear’s-oil away,” 
said Socky, in a tone of regret. He thought a 


222 


Silas Strong 

moment, and then added, “Ladies don’t never 
git spoke to.” 

“You’d 'carry her on your back — wouldn’t 
you, Uncle Robert?” inquired little Sue. Both 
children fixed him with their eyes. 

“Oh no — that wouldn’t do,” said Master. 

“ Men don’t never carry ladies on their backs,” 
Socky wisely assured her. 

“Uncle Silas carries ’em,” Sue insisted. 

“That’s only Aunt Sinthy,” said the boy, now 
a little in doubt of his position. 

Just then they heard the crow chattering 
away up the dusky trail. The children rose and 
ran to meet “the beautiful lady,” and their 
voices rang in the still woods, calling, “ Hoo-hoo! 
hoo-hoo!” Master slowly followed so as to 
keep in sight of them. When he saw Edith 
Dunmore come out of a thicket suddenly and 
embrace them, he turned back and stood where 
he could just hear the sound of their voices. 

She drew them close to her breast a moment, 
and a low strain of song sounded within her 
closed lips — that unconscious, irrepressible song 
of the mother at the cradle. 

“Dear little brownies! I love you — I love 
you,” she said, presently. Then she whispered, 
“Where is he?” 


223 


Silas Strong 

“ Over there,” the boy answered, pointing with 
his finger. 

“Come, I’ll show you,” said Sue. 

“Fairy queen — I dare not follow you,” the 
girl answered. “I am afraid.” 

“He wants you to come and live with us — 
he .does,” the boy declared. “He’ll be awful 
good to you — he said he would.” 

“Did he say that he liked me very much?” 
she asked. 

“I wouldn’t tell,” said the boy, with a win- 
some look as he thought of Master’s reproof. 

“You wouldn’t tell me?” 

“ ’Cause it’s a secret.” 

“You are like the little god I have read of!” 
Miss Dunmore exclaimed, drawing him closer. 
“Will you never stop wounding me?” 

“Please come,” said Sue. “You can sleep 
in our bed an’ hear Uncle Silas sing.” 

“Where is your mother?” 

“Dead,” Sue answered, cheerfully. 

“ ’Way up in heaven,” said Socky, as he point- 
ed aloft with his finger. 

“And your father?” 

“Gone away,” said the boy. “I give him 
all my money — more’n a dollar.” 

“And you live at Lost River camp?” 

224 


Silas Strong 

Socky nodded. 

“Are they good to you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“I wonder why he doesn’t come?” said Miss 
Dunmore, impatiently. 

“ ’Fraid — maybe,” Sue suggested. 

“Pooh! he ain’t ’fraid,” Socky declared, as he 
broke away and ran down the trail. Miss Dun- 
more tried to call him back, but he did not hear her. 

“‘The beautiful lady’! She wants to see 
you,” he said to Master, his eyes glowing with 
excitement. 

The young man took the boy’s hand. They 
proceeded up the trail in the direction whence 
Socky had come. 

“You ain’t ’fraid, are you, Uncle Robert?” 
the boy asked, eager to clear his friend of all 
unjust suspicion. 

“Oh no,” Master answered, with a nervous 
laugh. 

“He ain’t ’fraid,” the boy proclaimed as they 
came into the presence of Edith Dunmore. “ He 
can kill a bear.” 

“Afraid only of interrupting your pleasure,” 
said the young man as he approached her. She 
retreated a step or two and turned half away. 
The children began to gather flowers. 

225 


Silas Strong 

“I tremble when I hear you coming,” said 
she, timidly. “You are so — ” She thought a 
moment. “Strange,” she added, with a smile. 
She looked up at him curiously. “So very 
strange to me, sir.” 

“You are strange to me also,” he answered. 
“I have seen no one like you, and I confess to 
one great fear.” 

“What fear?” 

“That I may not see you again,” the young 
man answered, with a smile. 

She stooped to pick a flower. Every move- 
ment of her lithe, tall figure, every glance of her 
eye seemed to tighten her hold upon him. He 
stood dumb in the spell of her beauty, until she 
added, sorrowfully, “ I am afraid of you, sir — I 
cannot help it.” 

“I wish I were less terrible,” he answered, 
with a sigh. 

“I will not see you again.” 

“ But — but I love you,” he said, simply. 

“When I am here I am afraid — when I go 
away I am sorry.” Her voice trembled as she 
spoke. “I have no peace any more. I can- 
not enjoy books or music. I cannot stay at 
home. I wander — all day I wander, and the 
night is long — and I hear the voices of chil- 
226 


Silas Strong 

dren — like those I have heard here — calling 
me. 

There was a note of sympathy in his voice 
when he answered, “ It is the same with me, only 
it is your voice that I hear.” 

She looked up at him, her face full of wonder. 

“ I think no more of the many things I have 
to do, but only of one,” he said, with feeling. 

Miss Dunmore seemed not to hear him. 

“I think only of coming here,” he added. 

She stepped away timidly, and turned and 
stood straight as the young spruce, looking into 
his eyes. 

“I, too, have no more peace,” he said, re- 
straining his impulse to go further. 

“ I must leave you — I must not speak to you 
any more,” she answered. 

“Stay/’ he pleaded. “I will be silent — I will 
say not a word unless you bid me speak — but 
let me look at you.” 

She stood a moment as if thinking. 

“Do you hear that bird song?” she asked, 
looking upward. 

“Yes, it has a merry sound.” 

“ It is my answer to you,” said she. 

“Then I am sure you love me.” 

As he came nearer she retreated a little. 

227 


Silas Strong 

“ I give you everything — everything but my- 
self,” said she. 

“And why not yourself?” 

Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she 
said to him, “There are those who need me 
more.” 

“ I offer myself to you and to them also.” 

She stood with averted eyes. In a moment 
she said, “Tell me what are we to do when those 
we love die?” 

“I, too, and all the children of men have that 
same worry,” said he. “There’s an old Eastern 
maxim, ‘ Love as many as you can, so that death 
may not make you friendless.’ ” 

She walked away slowly. She stopped where 
the children sat playing and embraced them. 

“Will you not say that you love me?” the 
young man urged. 

The girl went up the gloomy trail with lagging 
feet as if it were steep and difficult. That clear- 
voiced love-call of the children halted her, and 
she looked back. Again the bird flung his song 
upon the silence. The sweet voice of the maiden 
rang like a bell in the still forest, as if answer- 
ing the bird’s message. “ I love you — I love 
you,” it said. Then she turned quickly and ran 
away. 


228 


XXIV 


DITH DUNMORE wandered 
slowly through deep thickets, and 
where she could just see the light- 
ed chasm of Catamount between 
far tree- tops she lay down to weep 
and think and be alone. She was like some 
wounded creature of the forest who would hide, 
even from its own eyes, on the soft, kindly bosom 
of the great mother. 

She had learned enough to have some under- 
standing of that strange power which of late had 
broken every day into seconds. These little 
fragments of time had all shades of color, from 
joy to despair. She lay recalling those which 
had been full of revelation. In a strange loneli- 
ness she thought of all Robert Master had said, 
of far more in that wordless, wonderful assur- 
ance which had passed from his soul to hers. 
She knew that to be given in marriage was to 
leave all for a new love. 

She knew better than they suspected — those 
229 



Silas Strong 

few dwellers at Buckhorn — how dear, how in- 
dispensable she was to them. She knew how 
soon that loneliness, which had often seemed to 
fill the heavens above her, would bear them 
down. Yet she would not hesitate; she would 
go with him, and for this she felt a sense of 
shame. 

She lay longer than she knew, looking up at 
the sky through needled crowns of pine. That 
passion which has all the fabled power of Fate 
was busy with her. 

A band of crows had alighted in a tree above 
her head and begun cawing. Roc, who had 
gone to roost in a small fir, answered them. 
One dove into the great, dusky hall of the near 
woods and made it echo with his cawing. Roc 
rose and followed through its green roof into 
the open sky. The maiden called to him, but 
he heeded only the call of his own people, and 
made his choice between flying and creeping, 
between loneliness and joy, between the paths 
of men and that appointed for him in the heav- 
ens. His had been like her own decision — so 
she thought — he had heard the one cry which 
he could not resist. Lately she had neglected 
him. He had missed her caresses and begun 
to think of better company. Again and again 
230 


Silas Strong 

she called, but he had gone quickly far out of 
hearing. She listened, waiting and looking into 
the sky, but he came not. 

Master had taken the children home and re- 
turned to his little camp on the pond. She 
could hear the stroke of his axe; she could hear 
him singing. She fancied, also, that she could 
hear the children call — that little trumpet tone 
which had thrilled her when it rang in the 
woods. She rose and walked slowly towards 
the lighted basin below her. She could not 
bear to turn away from it. She would go down 
and look across from the edge of the thickets. 
She feared that she had too freely uncovered her 
feeling for him. 

Soon she turned back, but then she seemed to 
be treading on her own heart. She ran towards 
the place where she had met him. She thought 
not of the children now, but only of the young 
man. She had heard her father say: “A man 
throws off his mask when he is alone. If we 
could see him then we should know what is in 
his soul.” Could she look into his face while he 
knew not of her being near she would know if he 
loved her. She tried to enlarge this fancy into a 
motive. It failed, however, to end her self-re- 
proaches. Soon, almost in tears, she began to 
231 


Silas Strong 

whisper : “ I do not care. I must see him again. 
I cannot go until I have seen him.” 

Moose-birds flew in the tops above her, scold- 
ing loudly, as if to turn her back. They an- 
noyed her, and she stopped until they had 
flown away. She trembled as she drew near the 
familiar cove. Stealthily she made her way, 
halting where they had talked together. A 
solemn silence brooded there. She felt the moss 
where his feet had stood. He had held this 
fragrant, broken lily in his hand. She picked it 
up and pressed it to her lips. She slowly crossed 
the deep, soft mat sloping to the water’s edge, 
and peered between sprays of tamarack. The 
shadows had shifted to the farther shore. A 
sprinkle of hot light fell upon her shoulders. 
The disk of the sun was cut by dead pines on 
the bald ridge opposite. She heeded not the 
warning it gave her, but only looked and listened. 
She could hear Master over at the landing, hid- 
den by the point of Birch Cove. He was cutting 
wood for the night. Under cover of thickets, 
she made her way along the edge of the pond. 
It was a walk of more than half a mile around 
the coves. 

By-and-by she could hear the tread of Master’s 
feet and the crackle of his fire. She moved with 


232 


Silas Strong 

the stealth of a deer. Soon she could smell the 
odor of frying meat and was reminded of her 
hunger. She passed a spring, above which a 
cup hung, and saw the trail leading to his camp. 
Possibly very soon he would be going after 
water. She knelt in a thicket where she could 
see him pass, and waited. For a long time she 
waited. 

Suddenly she rose and peered about her. 
She paled with alarm. It was growing dusk; 
she had forgotten that the day would have an 
end. It was a journey to Buckhom, and her 
little guide — where was he ? Cautiously she 
retraced her steps along the shore. In a mo- 
ment she began to weep silently. When she 
tried to hurry the rustling of the brush halted 
her. Had he heard it? What was that sound 
far up the ridge before her? She knelt and 
listened. It was a man coming in the distance. 
She could hear him whistling as he walked. 
Slowly he approached, passing within a few feet 
of her. She had often hidden that way from 
unexpected travellers in the forest. She waited 
a little and hurried on. 

The thickets seemed now to hold her back as 
if to defeat her purpose. She got clear of them 
by -and -by and ran up the side of the -ridge. 

16 233 


Silas Strong 

She peered about her, seeking the familiar trail. 
The dusk had thickened — her alarm had grown. 
She stopped a moment to make sure of her way. 
Again she hurried on. Soon she entered the 
little six-mile thoroughfare from Catamount to 
Buckhorn. She ran a few rods down the trail 
and stopped. It was growing dark; she could 
scarcely see the ground beneath her; she might 
soon lose her way in the forest. She leaned 
against a tree-trunk and shook with sobs, think- 
ing of her folly and of her friends at home. 
Presently she ran back in the direction of Mas- 
ter’s camp. She left the trail and went slowly 
down the side of the ridge. She must go and 
tell him that she had lost her way and ask for 
a lantern. She could see the flicker of his fire. 
She groped through the bushes to a little cove 
opposite, where, across water some twenty rods 
away, she could see his camp. 

In the edge of the dark forest the girl sat 
gazing off at the firelight. She was weary and 
athirst; she was tortured with anxiety, but she 
could not summon courage to go. She could 
see the light flooding between tree columns, 
leaping into high tops, gilding the water-ripples. 
She could see shadows moving; she could hear 
voices. Light and shadow seemed to beckon 
234 


Silas Strong 

and the voices to invite her, but she dared not 
go. She would boldly rise and feel her way a 
few paces, only to sit down again. Tales which 
her father had told her concerning the wicked- 
ness of men flashed out of her memory. 

That light was on the edge of the unknown 
world — full of mystery and peril. She could not 
goad herself nearer. 


XXV 


T was Strong who had passed 
Edith Dunmore as night was fall- 
ing over the hollow of Catamount. 
He was returning from his day 
of toil at Nick Pond. 

“Just in time,” said the young man, who was 
eating supper at a rude table, from a pole above 
which two lighted lanterns hung. 

The great body of the Emperor fell heavily on 
a camp-stool. He blew as he flung his hat off. 

“Hot!” said he, and then with three or four 
great gulps he poured a dipper of water down 
his throat. 

Master put a small flask on the table at which 
they sat. 

“Opey-d-dildock?” Strong inquired, softly. 

“The same,” said Master. “Help yourself.” 

The Emperor obeyed him without a word. 

“How’s that?” inquired the young man. 

“ S-sassy,” Strong answered, wiping his mouth 
with the back of his hand. 

236 



Silas Strong 

4 ‘Fall to,” said Master, putting the platter of 
trout in front of him. 

“Here’s f-fishin’,” said Strong, as he lifted a 
large trout by the tail. 

“Good place to anchor. Anything new?” 

“B-bear,” Strong stammered, with a little 
shake of his head. 

“Where?” 

The Emperor crushed a potato and filled his 
mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before he an- 
swered, “Up t-trail.” 

“ How far?” 

Strong pointed with his fork. He stopped 
chewing and turned and listened for a breath. 
“B-bout mile.” He sighed and shook his head 
sorrowfully. 

“ What’s the matter ?” 

“ F-feelin’s!” Strong answered, pointing the 
fork towards his bosom. 

“No gun?” 

Strong nodded. It was a moment of moral 
danger. He knew that Satan would lay hold 
of his tongue unless it were guarded with great 
caution. He sat back and whistled for half a 
moment. 

“ S-safe!” he exclaimed, presently, with a sigh, 
as he went on eating. 


237 


Silas Strong 

'‘Which way was he travelling ?” 

“Th-this way — limpin’,” said Strong. 

“ Limping?” 

“ W-wownded,” Strong added, softly, gently, 
as if he were still on dangerous ground. 

They finished their meal in silence and drew 
up to the hre and filled their pipes. 

He rose and lighted his pipe and returned to 
the table as soon as he had begun smoking. 
He took out his worn memorandum-book and 
thoughtfully wrote these words : 

“July the 6 

“ See a bear — best way to kepe the ten command- 
ments is to kepe yer mouth shet.” 

Strong resumed his chair at the camp-fire. 
Suddenly he raised his hand. They could hear 
the cracking of dead brush across the cove. 

“S-suthin’,” Strong whispered. 

Again the sound came to their ears out of 
the silent forest. 

“Hearn it d-dozen times,” said the Emperor. 

They listened a moment longer. Then Strong 
rose. 

“ B-bear!” he whispered. “ Light an’ rifle.” 

Master tiptoed to the shanty. He lighted the 
dark lantern — a relic of deer-stalking days — 
238 


Silas Strong 

with which he had found his way to Catamount 
the night before. He adjusted the leathern 
helmet so its lantern rested above his forehead. 
He raised his rifle and opened the small box of 
light. A beam burst out of it and shot across 
the darkness and fell on a thicket. The spire 
of a little fir, some forty feet away, seemed to 
be bathed in sunlight. The beam glowed along 
the top of his rifle-barrel, and he stood a mo- 
ment aiming to see if he could catch the sights. 

Strong beckoned to him. The young man 
came close to the side of the hunter and sug- 
gested, “Maybe it’s a deer.” 

“’T-’tain’ no deer,” Strong whispered. “S- 
suthin’ dif’er’nt.” He listened again. “It’s 
over on th-that air cove.” 

He explained briefly that in his opinion the 
bear, being wounded, had come down for rest 
and water. He presented his plan. They would 
cross the cove in their canoe. When they were 
near the sound he would give the canoe a little 
shake, whereupon Master should carefully open 
the slide and throw his light along the edge of 
the pond. If he saw the glow of a pair of eyes 
he was to aim between them and fire. 

They tiptoed to the landing, lifted their 
canoe into water, and, without a sound louder 
239 


Silas Strong 

than the rustle of their garments or the fall of 
a water-drop, took their places, Master in the 
bow and Strong in the paddle-seat behind him. 
The hunter leaned forward and felt for bottom 
and gave her a careful shove. Then, with a 
little movement of his back, he tossed his weight 
against the cedar shell and it moved slowly into 
the black hollow of Catamount. The hunter 
sank his paddle-blade. It pulled in little, silent, 
whirling slashes. The canoe sheared off into 
thick gloom, cleaving its way with a movement 
soundless and indistinguishable. 

For a few seconds Master felt a weird touch of 
the soul in him — as if, indeed, it were being 
stripped of its body and were parting with the 
senses. Then he could scarcely resist the im- 
pression that he had risen above the earth and 
begun a journey through the black, silent air. 
So, for a breath, his consciousness had seemed 
to stray from its centre; then, quickly, it came 
back. He began to know of that which, merci- 
fully, in the common business of life, is just be- 
yond the reach of sense. He could hear the 
muffled rivers of blood in his own body ; he felt 
his heart-beat in the fibres of the slender craft 
beneath him, sensitive as a bell; he became 
strangely conscious of the great, oxlike body 
240 


Silas Strong 

behind him — of moving muscles in arm and 
shoulder, of the filling and emptying of its lungs, 
of its stealthy, eager attitude. 

The night life of the woods was beginning — 
that of beasts and birds that see and wander and 
devour in the darkness. From far away the 
faint, wild cry of one of them wavered through 
the woods. It was like the yell of a reveller in 
the midnight silence of a city. 

The sky was overcast. Dimly Master could 
see the dying flicker of his firelight on the mist 
before him. A little current of air, nearly spent, 
crept over the pine-tops and they began to 
whisper. The young man thought of the big, 
blue, tender eyes which had looked up at him 
that day, so full of childish innocence and yet 
full of the charm and power of womanhood. 

Master turned his head quickly. Near him 
he had heard the sound of a deep-drawn, shud- 
dering breath, and then a low moan. He 
thought with pity of the poor creature now 
possibly breathing its last. He was eager to 
end its agony. He trembled, waiting for the 
signal to open his fight. The bow brushed a 
lily-pad. He could feel the paddle backing with 
its muffled stroke. The canoe had stopped. 

Again he heard a movement in the brush. It 
241 


Silas Strong 

was very near; he could feel the canoe backing 
for more distance. Then he felt the signal. 
That little shake in the shell of cedar had seemed 
to go to his very heart. He raised his hand 
carefully and opened the lantern - slide. The 
beam fell upon tall grass and flashed between 
little columns of tamarack. At the end of its 
misty pathway he could just dimly make out 
the foliage. He could see nothing clearly. 

Again he felt the signal. He knew that the 
hunter had seen the game. Now the light-beam 
illumined the top of his rifle-barrel. 

Suddenly the trained eye of Strong had caught 
the gleam of eyes — then the faint outline of lips 
dumb with terror. He struck with his paddle 
and swung his bow. 

The hammer fell. A little flame burst out of 
the rifle-muzzle, and a great roar shook the si- 
lences. A shrill cry rang in its first echo. The 
canoe bounded over lily-pads and flung her bow 
on the bank a foot above water. Master sprang 
ashore followed by Strong. They clambered 
up the bank. 

“Strong, I’ve killed somebody,” said the 
young man, his voice full of the distress he felt. 
He swept the shore with his light. It fell on 
the body of a young woman lying prone among 
242 


Silas Strong 

the brakes. Quickly he knelt beside her and 
threw the light upon her face. 

“My God! Come here, Strong!” he shouted, 
hoarsely. 

His friend, alarmed by his cry, hurried to 
him. Master had raised the head of Miss Dun- 
more upon his arm and was moaning pitiful- 
ly. He covered the beautiful white face with 
kisses. 

Strong, who stood near with the lantern, had 
begun to stammer in an effort to express his 
thoughts. 

“ K-keep C7C00I, ” he soon succeeded in saying. 
“ I switched the canoe an’ ye n-never t-touched 
her. She’s scairt — th-that’s all.” 

Edith Dunmore had partly risen and opened 
her eyes. Master lifted her from the earth and 
held her close and kissed her. His joy over- 
came him so that the words he tried to utter fell 
half spoken from his lips. She clung to him, and 
their silence and their tears and the touch of 
their hands were full of that assurance for which 
both had longed. 

“T-y-ty!” Strong whispered as he held the 
light upon them. 

For a long moment the lovers stood in each 
other’s embrace. 


243 


Silas Strong 

“I don’t know why I came here,” said she, 
presently, in a troubled voice. 

He took her hands in his and raised them to 
his lips. 

“ I must go; I must go,” she said. 

“Come, we will go with you,” said the young 
man. 

He put his arm around the waist of the girl. 
They walked slowly up the side of the ridge, with 
Strong beside them, throwing light upon their 
path. Master heard from her how it befell that 
darkness had overtaken her in the basin of Cata- 
mount, and she learned from him why they had 
come out in their canoe. 

“You will not be afraid of me any more,” he 
said. 

She stopped and raised one of his hands and 
held it against her cheek with a little moan of 
fondness. Curiously she felt his face. 

“ It is so dark — I cannot see you, ’ ’ she whispered . 

“ I loathe the darkness that hides your beauty 
from me,” said the young man. 

Strong turned his light upon her face. Tears 
glittered in the lashes of her eyes and a new peace 
and trustfulness were upon her countenance. 

“We shall see better to-morrow,” the young 
man said. 

244 


* 


Silas Strong 

“My father is coming — he will be angry — he 
will not let me see you again — ” Her voice 
trembled with its burden of trouble. 

“Leave that to me — no one shall keep us 
apart,” he assured her. “I will see him to- 
morrow and tell him all.” 

They walked awhile in silence. The whistle 
blew for the night-shift at Benson Falls. Its 
epic note bellowed over the plains and up and 
down the timbered hills of the Emperor. It 
seemed to warn the trees of their doom. 

She thought then of the great world, and said, 
“ I will go with you.” 

“And be my wife?” 

“Yes. I am no longer afraid.” 

“We shall go soon,” he answered. 

A mile or so from the shore of Buckhorn they 
could hear the voice of a woman calling in the 
still woods, and they answered. Soon they saw 
the light of a lantern approaching in the trail. 
For a moment Master and the maiden whispered 
together. 

Soon the old nurse and servant of Edith Dun- 
more came out of the darkness trembling with 
fear and anxiety. Gently the girl patted the 
bare head of the woman as she whispered to her. 
In a moment all resumed their journey. 

245 


Silas Strong 

When they had come to Buckhorn and could 
see the camp-lights, Master launched a canoe 
and took the girl and her servant across the pond. 
He left them without a word and returned to the 
other shore. Strong and he stood for a moment 
listening. Then they set out for their homes 
far down the trail. The Emperor was busy 
“thinking out thoughts.” 

' “Mountaneyous!” he muttered, “g-great an’ 
p-powerful.” 

For the second time in his life he felt strongly 
moved to expression and seemed to be feeling 
for adequate words. Master put his arm around 
the big hunter and asked him what he meant. 

“Oh-h-h! Oh-h-h!” Strong murmured, in a 
tone of singular tenderness. “P-purty! purty! 
w-wonderful purty! She’s too g-good fer this 
w-world. I jes’ f-felt like t-takin’ her on my 
b-back an’ makin’ r-right across the s-swamps 
an’ hills fer heaven.” 

The Emperor wiped his eyes and added: 

“ You’re as handy with a g-gal as I am with a 
f -fish-rod.” 

Next day he noted this conclusion in his 
memorandum-book : 

“Strong cant wait much longer. He’s got to have 
a guide for the long trail.” 

246 


XXVI 


EXT day Master went to Tillbury 
for his mail, a walk of some twenty 
miles. He lingered for awhile near 
the shore of Buckhorn on his way, 
but saw nothing of her he loved. 

Two fishermen had arrived at Strong’s, and 
the Emperor had taken them to spring holes in 
the lower river. 

After supper that evening he built a big fire 
in front of the main camp, and sat down beside 
the fishermen with Socky and Sue in his lap. 

Darkness had fallen when Dunmore strode 
into the firelight. 

“Dwellers in the long house,” he said, re- 
moving his cap, “I am glad to sit by your 
council fire.” 

“Had supper?” Strong inquired. 

“No — give me a doughnut and a piece of 
bread and butter. I’ll eat here by the fire.” 

He took the children in his arms while Strong 
went to prepare his luncheon. 

247 



Silas Strong 

“ I love and fear you,” said he. “You make 
me think of things forgotten.” 

Of late Socky had thought much of the gen- 
eral subject of grandfathers. He knew that 
they were highly useful members of society. 
He had seen them carry children on their backs 
and draw them in little wagons. This fact had 
caused him to put all able-bodied grandfathers 
in the high rank of ponies and billy-goats. His 
uncles Silas and Robert had been out of camp 
so much lately they had been of slight service 
to him. The thought that a grandfather would 
be more reliable, had presented itself, and he 
had broached the subject to little Sue. How 
they were acquired — whether they were bought 
or “ketched” or just given away to any who 
stood in need of them — neither had a definite 
notion. On this point the boy went to his aunt 
for counsel. She told him, laughingly, that they 
were “spoke for” in a sort of proposal like that 
of marriage. He had begun to think very 
favorably of Mr. Dunmore, and timidly put the 
question : 

“Are — are you anybody’s gran’pa?” 

“No.” 

“Mebbe you’d be my gran’pa,” the boy sug- 
gested, soberly. 


248 


Silas Strong 

“Maybe,” said Dunmore, with a smile. 

“We could play horse together when Uncle Silas 
is away,” was the further suggestion of Socky. 

“Why not play horse with your sister?” 

“She’s too little — she can’t draw me.” 

“Gran’pas don’t make the best horses,” Dun- 
more objected. 

“ Yes they do, ” Socky stoutly affirmed. “ May 
Butler’s gran ’pa draws her ’round everywhere in 
a little cart.” 

“Well, that shows that old men can be good 
for something,” said Dunmore. “Where’s your 
wagon?” 

Socky ran for the creaking treasure. 

“Now get in — both of you,” said the white- 
haired man. 

Socky and Sue mounted the wagon. Dun- 
more took the tongue-peg in both hands and 
began to draw them around the fire. Their 
cries of pleasure seemed to warm his heart. He 
quickened his pace, and was soon trotting in a 
wide circle while Zeb ran at his side and seemed 
to urge him on. 

When, wearied by his exertion, he sat down 
to rest, the children stood close beside him and 
felt his face with their hands, and gave him the 
silent blessing of full confidence. 

249 


17 


Silas Strong 

For Dunmore there was a kind of magic in it 
all. Somehow it faced him about and set him 
thinking of new things. That elemental appeal 
ot the little folk had been as the sunlight break- 
ing through clouds and falling on the darkened 
earth. In his lonely heart spring-time had re- 
turned. 

The children climbed upon his knees, and he 
began a curious chant with closed eyes and 
trembling voice. The firelight fell upon his 
face while he chanted as follows: 

“ I hear the voices of little children ringing like silver 
bells, 

And the great bells answer them — they that hang 
in the high towers — 

The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of 
hope and love and friendship. 

They call me in the silence and have put a new 
song in my mouth/' 

So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured 
song of the old time as if his heart were full and 
could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood 
and youth and of joys half forgotten. 

Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her 
hands, before he finished. 

He let the children go and began eating. 

“This is good,” said he, “and I feel like bless- 
250 


Silas Strong 

ing every one of you. Sometimes I think God 
looks out of the eyes of the hungry.” 

After a moment he added: “Strong, do you 
remember that song I wrote for you ? It gives 
the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 
‘ The Song of the Venison-Tree.’ ” 

The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire 
and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious 
fact that many who stammer can follow the rut 
of familiar music without betraying their infirm- 
ity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the 
song of 

THE VENISON-TREE 



2 5 T 


in the 


Silas Strong 



in - to thoughts a - bout the ven - ’son tree. 


“The busy cranes go back an* forth a-ploughin’ up 
the sky ; 

The wild-goose drag comes down the wind, an’ goes 
a-tearin’ by; 

The song-birds sow their music in the blue fields 
over me, 

An’ it seems to grow up into thoughts about the 
ven ’son -tree. 

“The apple-blossoms scatter down — a scented summer 
snow, 

An’ man an’ wind an’ cloud an’ sun have all begun 
to sow. 

The green hopes come a-sproutin’ up somewhere in- 
side o’ me, 

An’ it’s time we oughter see the sprouts upon the 
ven ’son -tree. 

“There’s velvet on the willow an’ there's velvet on the 
f horn — 

There’s new silk in the tree- top an’ the tassel o’ the 
corn. 

The woods are trimmed fer weddin’s — an* we're all in 
Sunday cl’os, 

An’ the bark upon the ven’son-tree is redder than 
a rose. 


252 


Silas Strong 

“The days are still an* smoky an’ the nights are 
growin’ cold, 

The maples are a-drippin* blood, the beeches drippiit’ 
gold; 

The briers are above my head, the brakes above my 
knee, 

An* the bark is gettin’ kind o* bine upon the ven ’son- 
tree.” 

Here the singer whistled and drummed with 
his heels upon a log in imitation of the hurricane. 
Then he began to sing of the coming of winter. 

The white-haired man interrupted him. “ ’Tis 
inadequate, ’ ’ said he. “ Let me try to express the 
reaping of the great wind.” Dunmore turned 
and spoke these lines, a frown suggesting the an- 
gry sky upon his brow, a sound like that of the 
rising storm in his heavy voice : 


“What makes the big trees shake an’ groan as if they 
all had sinned? 

’Tis God A’mighty’s reaper with the horses o’ the 
wind. 

He will hitch with chains of lightning — He will urge 
with thunder call — 

He will try the rotten-hearted ’til they reel and break 
and fall.” 


“Now go on,” Dunmore requested, as he re- 
sumed his chair, and Silas went on: 

253 


Silas Strong 

“The leaves are driftin’ in the breeze an’ gethered 
where they lie 

Are the colors o’ the sunset an’ the smell o’ the 
windy sky. 

The squirrels whisk with loaded mouths an’ stop an’ 
say t’ me: 

‘It's time t’ gether in the fruit upon the ven’son- 
tree.’ 

“‘What makes ye look so anxious, an’ what makes 
ye speak so low?’ 

‘It’s ’cause I’m thinkin’ o’ the place where I’m 
agoin’ t’ go. 

This here I’ve been a-tinkerin’, which lays acrost 
my knee, 

Is the axe that I’m a-usin’ fer t’ fell the ven’son- 
tree. 

“ ‘ I’ve polished up the iron an’ I’ve covered it with ile; 

Its bit is only half an inch, its helve is half a mile.’ ” 

The singer pursed his lips and blew in imita- 
tion of the startled deer. 

‘“Whew! what’s that so pesky? Why, it kind o’ 
frightened me.’ 

‘ It’s the wind a-blowin’ through the top o’ the cute 
ol’ ven’son-tree. ’ ” 

As the Emperor ceased, Dunmore turned 
quickly, his black eyes glowing in the firelight. 
Raising his right hand above his head, he chanted 
these lines: 


254 


Silas Strong 

“The wilderness shall pass away like Babylon of old, 

And every tree shall go to build a thing of greater 
mould ; 

The chopper he shall fall to earth as fell the mighty 
tree, 

And his timber shall be used to build a nobler man 
than he.” 

“Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?” 
Strong asked. 

“His character,” Dunmore answered. “Men 
are like trees. Some are hickory, some are oak, 
some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some 
are strong, beautiful, generous; some are small 
and sickly for want of air and sunlight; some 
are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. 
Every year we must draw energy out of the 
great breast of nature and put on a fresh ring 
of wood. We must grow or die. You know 
what comes to the rotten -hearted ?” 

“Uh-huh,” said the hunter. 

“There’s good timber enough in you and in 
that little book of yours,” Dunmore went on. 
“If it’s only milled with judgment — some of 
it would stand planing and polishing — there’s 
enough, my friend, to make a mansion. Be- 
lieve me, it will not be lost.” 

Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook 
his head. “Ain’t nothin’ b-but a woodpecker’s 
2 55 


Silas Strong 

drum,” he answered. After a moment of silence 
he asked, “What ’ll become o’ the country?” 

“Without forests it will go the way of Egypt 
and Asia Minor,” said the white-haired man. 
“They were thickly wooded in the day of their 
power. Now what are they? Desert wastes!” 
Dunmore rose and filled his lungs, and added: 
“As you said to me one day, ‘People are no 
better than the air they breathe.’ There’s going 
to be nothing but cities, and slowly they will 
devour our substance. Indigestion, weakness, 
impotency, degeneration will follow. 

“Strong, I’m already on the downward path. 
Half a day’s walk has undone me. I’ll get to 
bed and go home in the morning.” 


XXVII 



UNMORE was up at daybreak. 
He set out in the dusk and, as the 
sun rose, entered the hollow of 
Catamount. Master met him on 
the trail. 

They greeted each other. Then said the young 
man, “I have something to say regarding one 
very dear to me and to you.” 

Promptly and almost aggressively the query 
came, “Regarding whom?” 

“Your daughter.” 

Dunmore took a staggering step and stopped 
and looked sternly at Master. 

“I met her by chance — ” the other began to 
say. Dunmore interrupted him. 

“I will not speak with you of my daughter,” 
he said. He turned away, frowning, and re- 
sumed his journey. 

“You are unjust to her and to me,” said 
Master. “You have no right to imprison the 
girl.” 

257 


Silas Strong 

The white-haired man hurried on his way and 
made no answer. 

Master had seen a strange look come into the 
eyes of Dunmore. That trouble, of which he 
had once heard, might have gone deeper than 
any one knew. It might have left him a little 
out of balance. 

Full of alarm, the young lover hastened to 
Lost River camp. He found his friend at the 
spring and told of his ill luck. Without a word 
Strong killed the big trout which he had taken 
that day he fished with the pouters. 

“D-didn’t tell him ’bout that t-trout,” he 
said to Master as he wrapped the fish in ferns 
and flung him into his pack. “Th-thought I 
b -better wait an’ s-see.” 

He asked the young man to '‘keep cool,” and 
made off in the trail to Buckhorn. 

Always when starting on a journey he reckon- 
ed his task and set his pace accordingly and kept 
it up hill and down. He was wont to take an 
easy, swinging stride even though he was loaded 
heavily. Woodsmen who followed him used to 
say that he could bear “weight an’ misery like 
a bob-sled.” That day he lengthened his usual 
stride a little and calculated to “fetch up” with 
Dunmore about a mile from Buckhorn. The 
2 5 » 


Silas Strong 

older man had hurried, however, and was near- 
ing the pond when Strong overtook him. 

“What now?” Dunmore inquired. 

“ B -business,” was the cheerful answer of 
Strong. 

“It ’ll be part of it to paddle me across the 
pond. I’m tired,” said the other. 

They walked in silence to the shore. Strong 
launched a canoe and held it for the white-haired 
man. Without a word he pulled to the camp 
veranda where Dunmore ’s mother and daugh- 
ter stood waiting. The old gentleman climbed 
the steps and greeted the two with great tender- 
ness. 

“Snares!” he muttered, as he touched the 
brow of his daughter. “The devil is setting 
snares for my little nun.” 

Edith and her grandmother went into the 
house. Dunmore sat down with a stern, 
troubled look. 

“Got s-suthin’ fer you,” said Strong as he 
held up the big fish. “C’ris’mus p-present!” 

Dunmore turned to the hunter, and instantly 
a smile seemed to brush the shadows from his 
wrinkled face. 

“It’s your t- trout,” the Emperor added. 
“S-see there!” 


259 


Silas Strong 

He opened the jaws of the fish and showed the 
encysted remnant of a black gnat. 

“Bring him here,” Dunmore entreated, with 
a look of delight. 

Strong mounted the steps and put the trout 
in his hands. 

“ Sit down and tell me how and where you got 
him,” said Dunmore. 

Strong told the story of his capture, and the 
old gentleman was transported to that familiar 
place in the midst of the quick-water. The 
Emperor had not finished his account when the 
other interrupted him. Dunmore told of days, 
forever memorable, when he had leaned over the 
bank and seen his flies come hurtling up the 
current; of moments when he had heard the 
splash of the big trout and felt his line hauling; 
of repeated struggles which had ended in defeat. 
The white-haired man was in his best humor. 
Strong saw his opportunity. 

“I w-want a favor,” said he. 

Dunmore turned with a look of inquiry. The 
Emperor urged his lazy tongue. 

“Master w-wants t’ go t’ Albany an’ f-fight 
them air cussed ballhooters. W-wisht you’d 
g-go out to caucus.” 

A “ballhooter” was a man who rolled logs, 
260 


Silas Strong 

and Strong used the word in a metaphorical 
sense. 

“I don’t vote,” said Dunmore, and in half a 
moment he added just what the Emperor had 
hoped for: 

“What do you know about him?” 

“He’s a g-gentleman — an’ his f -father’s a 
gentleman.” 

A moment of silence followed. 

“ He’s the b-best chap that ever c-cometo my 
camp, ” Strong added. 

Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke 
in a low tone. 

“ Tell him,” said he, “ that I send apologies for 
my rudeness — he will understand you. Tell him 
to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish, but 
I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his 
mind I cannot now bear to think of it. But I 
will try — ” 

Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, 
his hand over his mouth. 

“I will try,” he repeated, in a whisper, “and, 
if he will let us alone, some day I may ask you 
to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and 
keep away.” 

Strong nodded, with full understanding of all 
that lay behind the message. 

261 


Silas Strong 

The old lady came out of the door and that 
ended their interview. She spoke to Strong 
with a kindly query as to his sister, and then 
came a great surprise for him. 

“I wish she would come and visit me,” said 
the old lady. “And I would love also to see 
those children.” 

Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no 
word was spoken for half a moment. 

“It’s a good idea,” he said, thoughtfully. 
Then, turning to Strong, he added: “We shall 
ask them to come soon. I shall want to see 
those children again.” 

In the moment of silence that followed he 
thought of those little people — of how they had 
begun to soften his heart and prepare him for 
what had come. 

The Emperor paddled back to the landing and 
returned to Lost River camp. 


XXVIII 


accepted the counsel of 
nd and kept away from 
rn. He was, at least, re- 
of the dark fears which 
re’s angry face had im- 
parted to him. He left camp to look after his 
canvass and was gone a fortnight. Strong had 
promised to let him know if any word came down 
the trail from their neighbors. The young man 
returned to his little shanty at Catamount and 
suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The 
silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. 
Every day Master went to Birch Cove and wan- 
dered through the deer trails. Every graceful 
thing in the still woods reminded him of her 
beauty and every bird-song had the music of her 
voice in it. He began to think of her as the 
embodied spirit of the woodland. She was like 
Strong himself, but Strong was the great pine- 
tree while she was like the young, white birches. 

One bright morning — it was nearly a month 
263 



Silas Strong 

after Strong had returned from Buckhom—* 
Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the 
camp of Dunmore alone. The Emperor had 
gone away with some fishermen and Master 
with the children. 

Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her 
heart was in the cause of the young people, and 
she had waited long enough for developments. 
The injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled 
her with indignation. She had her own private 
notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, 
and was of no mind to “mince matters.” 

She stood for a few moments at the landing on 
Buckhom and waved her handkerchief. The 
old lady saw her and sent the colored man- 
servant to fetch her across. Dunmore and his 
mother welcomed her at the veranda steps. 

“My land! So you’re Mis’ Dunmore!” said 
Sinth, coolly, as she took a chair and glanced 
about her. 

“Yes, and very glad to see you.” 

“ An’ you’ve stayed fifteen years in this camp ?” 

The old lady nodded. “ It’s a long time,” said 
she. 

“It’s a wonder ye ain’t all dead — livin’ here 
on the bank of a pond like a lot o’ mushrats!” 
Sinth went on. “ Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t’ 
264 


Silas Strong 

be ’shamed, o’ yerself. Heavens an’ earth! I 
never heard o’ nothin’ so unhuman.” 

A moment of silence followed. Dunmore 
smiled. He had never been talked to in that 
way. The droll frankness of the woman amused 
him. 

“ I mean jest what I say an’ more too,” Sinth 
went on. “ You ’ain’t done right, an’ if you can’t 
see it you ’ain’t got common -sense. My stars! 
I don’t care how much trouble you’ve had. A 
man that can’t take his pack full o’ trouble an’ 
keep agoin’ is a purty poor stick. I know what 
’tis to be disapp’inted. Good gracious me! you 
needn’t think you’re the only one that ever got 
hurt. The Lord has took away ev’ry thing I 
loved ’cept one. He ’ain’t left me nothin’ but 
a brother an’ a weak back an’ lots o’ work t’ 
do, an’ a pair o’ hands an’ feet an’ a head like a 
turnup. He’s blessed you in a thousan’ ways. 
He’s gi’n ye health an’ strength an’ talents an’ 
a gal that’s more like an angel than a human 
bein’, an’ you don’t do nothin’ but set aroun’ 
here an’ sulk an’ write portry!” 

Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look 
of unspeakable contempt at him. The face of 
Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, some- 
how, disarmed the man — it was like the honesty 
18 265 


Silas Strong 


of his own conscience. There had been a note 
of strange authority in her voice — like that 
which had come to him now and then out of the 
depths of his own spirit. 

“ Suppose every one that got a taste o’ trouble 
was t’ fly mad like a little boy an’ say he wouldn’t 
play no more,” Sinth went on. “My land! we 
wouldn’t be no better than a lot o’ cats an’ dogs 
that’s all fit out an’ hid under a barn! Cyrus 
Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You won’t 
play yerself an’ ye won’t let these women play 
nuther. You’re as selfish as a bear. You ’ain’t 
got no right t’ keep ’em here, an’ if you don’t 
know it you better go t’ school somewhere. 
Now there’s my mind right out plain an’ 
square.” 

She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little 
squirm of indignation. 

Dunmore paced up and down for half a mo- 
ment, a troubled look on his face. He stopped 
in front of Sinth. 

“Boneka, madam,” said he, extending his 
hand. 

“I forgive,” said Sinth, quickly, “providin’ 
you’ll try to do better. It’s nonsense to forgive 
any one ’less he’ll quit makin’ it nec’sary.” 

“I acknowledge here in the presence of my 
266 


Silas Strong 

mother,” said Dunmore, “that all you say is 
quite right. I have been a fool.” 

Sinth rose and adjusted her shawl as if to 
warn them that she must go. 

“ Wal, I’m glad you’ve come t’ yer senses,” 
said she, with a glance at the man. “ ’Tain’t 
none o’ my business, but I couldn’t hold in no 
longer. I’ve fell in love with that girl o’ }^our’n. 
She’s as purty as a yearling doe.” 

“ I don’t know what I would have done with- 
out her, ” said the old lady. “ Since she was a little 
girl she’s been eyes and hands and feet for me. I 
fear that I ’m most to blame for her imprisonment . ’ ’ 

As she talked the indignation of Sinth wore 
avray. Soon Dunmore helped her into his canoe 
and set her across the pond. 

“I’ll find out about the young man,” said he, 
as they parted. “He’ll hear from me.” 

One day soon after that Dunmore began to 
think of the children. In spite of himself he 
longed to see them again. He started for the 
camp at Lost River, and planned while there to 
have a talk with Strong and Master. At Nick 
Pond, on his way down, he met the two Migleys. 

After his interview with them he returned to 
Buckhom full of doubt regarding the young man 
who wished to marry his daughter. 

267 


XXIX 

ORE than a month had passed 
since the journey of Sinth to Buck- 
horn; but nothing had come of it. 
Silas, tramping with a party of 
fishermen, had met Dunmore one 
latter had stopped only for a word 

Master had left his little camp and Strong w r as 
to send for him on the arrival of important new T s. 
The candidate had canvassed every mill village 
among the foot-hills of the county but had found 
it up-hill work. Many voters had lately become 
bosom friends of Joe Socket, the able post- 
master at Moon Lake. Once Master had wan- 
dered into the Emperor’s camp with a plan to 
invade the stronghold of Dunmore and release 
the girl if, perchance, she might desire to be free. 
Strong had wisely turned the young man’s 
thought from all violence. He had taken out 
his old memorandum-book and pointed to this 
entry : 



day, but the 
of greeting. 


268 


Silas Strong 

Strong says the best thing f er a man to do in hell is 
kepe cool. Excitement will increase the heat.” 

So a foolish purpose had ended in a laugh. 

Since midsummer some rain had fallen, but 
not enough to slake the thirst of the dry earth. 
Now in the third week of September the tops 
were ragged and the forest floor strewn with new 
leaves and with great rugs of sunlight. Big, 
hurtling flakes of red and gold fell slowly and 
shook out the odors of that upper, fairy world of 
which Edith Dunmore had told the children. 

One still, sunlit day of that week the old 
struggle between Satan and Silas Strong reached 
a critical stage. Sinth had gone for a walk with 
Sue and Socky, and young Migley, coming down 
from his camp at Nick, had found the Emperor 
alone. He was overhauling a boat in his little 
workshop. 

“ Well, Colonel,” said the young lumberman, 
“we want to know why you’re fighting us.” 

Strong had lately gone over to the scene of his 
quarrel on the State land and plugged some of 
the pines with dynamite and posted warnings. 
He had rightly reckoned that thereafter the 
thieves would not find it easy to hire men for 
that job. 


269 


Silas Strong 

“ You’re f-fightin’ me,” said Strong, as he 
continued his work. 

“How’s that?” 

“C-cause ye ain’t honest.” 

“Look here, Colonel, you’d better fight for 
us.” The young man spoke with a show of 
feeling. “We’d like to be friendly with you.” 

Strong went on with his work, but made no 
answer. 

“We’re only taking old trees that are dead or 
dying over there on the State land. Some of 
’em are stag-headed — full of ‘widow-makers,’” 
said Thomas Migley. 

It should be explained that a big, dead 
branch was called a “widow-maker” by the 
woods folk. 

“We shall obey the law and pay a fine for 
every stump,” the young man continued. 
“That’s square.” 

“N-no,” said the Emperor, firmly. “That 
1-law was intended to p-protect the forest.” 

“You want us to be too honest to live,” 

said young Migley, with an oath. 

“ N-no. I’ll t-tell ye what’s the matter with 
y-you,” said Strong. “ Y-you ’ain’t got no r-res- 
pec’ fer God, country, man, er f-fish.” 

“You must agree to stand for us against all 
270 


Silas Strong 

comers or get out of here to-morrow,” the young 
man added. 

“Th-that’s quick,” said Strong, as he laid 
down his draw - shave and looked at Thomas 
Migley. 

“You can do as you like,” said the latter. 
“We’re willing to let you stay here as long as 
you want to.” 

Strong saw clearly that the words were a bid 
for his manhood. He weighed it carefully — 
this thing they were seeking to purchase — he 
thought of his sister and the children, of his 
talk with Master on the journey from Bees* Hill. 
The skin upon his forehead was now gathered 
into long, deep furrows. His body trembled a 
little as he rose and slowly crossed the floor. 
There was a kind of gentleness in his hand as 
he touched the shoulder of the young man. 
He spoke almost tenderly one would have 
thought who heard him stammer out the one 
word, “Run.” Suddenly his big hand shut like 
the jaws of a bear on Migley ’s arm and then 
let go. 

The young man hesitated and was rudely 
flung through the open door. He scrambled tp 
his feet and made for the trail in frantic haste. 

“R-run!” the Emperor shouted, in hot pur- 
271 


Silas Strong 

suit of young Thomas Migley, whose feet flew 
with ridiculous animation. 

Strong stopped at the edge of the clearing. 
He leaned against a tree-trunk and shook his 
head and stammered half an oath. Soon he 
hurried into one of the cabins and sat down. 
He looked about him — at the fireplace and the 
mantel, at the straight, smooth timbers of young 
spruce, at the floor of wooden blocks, patiently 
fitted together, at the rustic chairs and tables, 
at the sheathing of riven cedar. He thought of 
all that these things had cost him and for a mo- 
ment his eyes filled. 

He went to the cook-tent and found a map 
and spread it on the table. He could go over 
on the State land, pitch a couple of tents and 
build a shanty with a paper roof and siding, and 
make out for the rest of the summer. There 
would be two rivers and some rather wet land to 
cross. For a few moments he looked thought- 
fully at the map. Soon he took out his worn 
memorandum-book and wrote as follows: 

“Sep the 25. Strong has a poor set of feelin’s in 
him Satans ahed but Strong will flore him*’ 

He took his axe and saw and went to a big 
birch-tree which he had felled in the edge of the 
272 


Silas Strong 

clearing a few days before. He cut a twelve- 
foot log out of the trunk and began to hollow it. 
He stuck his axe when he heard Sinth and the 
children coming. He lifted Socky and Sue in his 
arms and carried them into camp. 

“G-goin’ t’ m-move,” he said to Sinth as he 
put them down. 

“ Move !” his sister exclaimed. “ They’re going 
to put us out?” 

Gently, fearfully, he whispered, “Ay-uh — ” 

Sinth turned and hurried into the cook-tent. 
It was curious that she, who had raised her 
voice against the camp whenever a new plan 
had been proposed, who had seen nothing but 
folly, one would think, in its erection or their 
life in it, should now lean her head upon the 
table and sob as if her dearest possession had 
been taken away. The Emperor followed and 
sat down at the table, his faded crown of felt 
hanging over one ear — a dejected and sorrowful 
creature. 

“D-don’t,” he said, tenderly. 

The children stood with open mouths peering 
in at the door. Sinth ’s emotion slowly subsided. 

“You’ve worked so, Silas,” Sinth moaned, 
as she sat wiping her eyes. “You’ve had to 
carry ev’rything in here on your back.” 

27 3 


Silas Strong 

After all, it had been a tender thought of him 
which had inspired all her scolding and her 
weeping. He had always known the truth, but 
he alone of all the many who had falsely judged 
her had known it. Strong sat looking down 
soberly in the silence that followed. His voice 
trembled a little when he spoke. 

“G-got ’nother house,” said he, calmly. His 
voice sank to a whisper as he added, “ Couldn’t 
b-bear t’ see it t-tore down.” 

Failing to understand, she looked up at him. 

“Myself,” he added, as he rose and smote his 
chest with his heavy right hand. He explained 
in a moment — “M-Migley wanted t’ b-buy me.” 

He put his hand on his sister’s head and said, 
“ B-better times. ’ ’ After a little silence he added, 
“You s-see.” 

He left her sitting with her head leaning on 
her hand in deep and sorrowful meditation. 
He had built a fire in the stove and got their 
supper well under way before she joined him. 

While Sinth was making her tearful protest, 
the children sat on a log outside the door and 
were much depressed. 

“ Somebody’s gone and done something to her 
album,” Sue whispered. The album was, in her 
view, the storm-centre of the camp. 

274 


Silas Strong 

After Strong had gone to work getting supper 
ready the two came stealthily to the knees of 
their aunt. 

“Aunt Sinthy,” Socky whispered. 

“What?” she asked, turning and beginning 
to smooth his hair with her hand. 

“I’m going to buy you a new album.” He 
spoke in a low, tentative, troubled tone. The 
boy’s resources would seem to be equal to every 
need. 

Sinth shook with silent laughter. In a mo- 
ment she kissed the boy and girl and drew them 
to her breast with a little moan of fondness. 
Then she rose and went to help her brother. 

A little before sundown they heard the report 
of a rifle which had been fired within a mile of 
camp. Strong stood listening and could hear 
distant voices. He walked down the trail and 
returned in half an hour. 

“It’s B-Business,” he said to Sinth. “His 
army is c-comin\” 


XXX 


TRONG was chopping and hew- 
ing on his birch log until late 
bedtime. He was like Noah get- 
ting ready for the destruction of 
the world. Having finished, he 
took his lantern off a branch beside him and 
surveyed a singular device. He called it a boat- 
jumper, and, inspired by a thought of the chil- 
dren, whispered to himself, “Uncle S-Silas is 
improvin’.” It was a mere shell about two 
inches thick, flat on the bottom and sheared on 
one end, canoe- fashion. It would serve as a 
jumper — a rough, sledlike conveyance — on the 
ground and as a boat on the rivers; it would 
carry Sinth and the children, with tents, blank- 
ets, provisions, and bedding enough to last until 
he could return for more. 

He hurried to camp and helped his sister with 
the packing. When a dozen great bundles lay 
on the floor, ready for removal, Sinth went to 
bed. But the tireless Emperor had more work 
276 



Silas Strong 

to do. He made two seats, with back-rests upon 
each, for the boat-jumper and fastened a whiffle- 
tree to the bow end of the same. On its stern he 
put two handles — like those of a plough — so that 
he might lay hold of them and steady the jumper 
in rough places. 

Next morning a little before sunrise he made 
off on the trail to Pitkin. 

At the general store and post-office in that 
hamlet he received a letter. It was from the 
forest, fish, and game commissioner, who thus 
addressed him: 

“Dear Mr. Strong, — I hear that timber thieves and 
deer-slayers are operating on State land near Rainbow 
Lake. I learn also that you are about to leave your 
camp at Lost River. If that is true I wish you would 
accept an appointment as deputy for that district and 
go at once and do what you can to protect the valley 
of Rainbow. The salary would be five hundred dollars. 
A letter just received informs me that ‘ Red ’ Macdonald 
is there with dogs. If you could deliver him into cus- 
tody you would be a public benefactor, but I warn you 
that he is a desperate man. Please let me hear from 
you immediately.” 

This gave Strong a new and grateful sense of 
being “ahead.” Before leaving the post-office 
he penned his acceptance of the offer. Then he 
proceeded to the home of Annette and found her 
277 


Silas Strong 

gone for the day. He sat down at the dinner- 
table and wrote these lines with all the delibera- 
tion their significance merited: 

“Deer lady, — In Ogdensburg an’ anxious to move. 
Patrick can snake me out. Meet me at Benson Falls 
Friday if possibul an’ youll heare some talkin’ done by 
“yours hopin fer better times, 

“S. Strong. 

“P.S. Strong’s ahed.” 

Meanwhile Sinth was in trouble. Young Mr. 
Migley had come, with a gang of sawyers and 
axemen, to dethrone the Emperor and take 
possession. He had his customary get-off-the- 
earth air about him — an air that often accom- 
panies the title to vast acreage. He found only 
Sinth and the children and summarily ordered 
them to leave. Then she gave him what she 
called “a piece of her mind.” It was a good- 
sized piece, all truth and just measure. 

While the furniture was being thrown out-of- 
doors she got ready to go. In the heart of Sinth 
indignation had supplanted sorrow. It wa’s in 
her countenance and the vigor of her foot-fall 
and in the way that she filled and closed and 
handled her satchel. Some of the brawny woods- 
men stood looking as she and the children came 
273 


Silas Strong 

out-of-doors — a solemn-faced little company. 
Something from the hearts of the men made 
Sinth touch her eyes with her handkerchief. 
Then a curious thing happened. Some of the 
lumber -jacks dropped their saws and axes. 

Those people could forgive much in “a good 
fellow” — they could forgive almost any infamy, 
it would seem, but the stony heart. Let one 
do a mean thing and rouse their quick sym- 
pathies a little and their oaths were as a dead- 
ly, fateful curse upon him. They never forgot 
the tear of sympathy or the wrath of resent- 
ment. 

The sorrow of the weak now seemed to touch 
the hearts of the strong. The children, seeing 
the tears of their aunt as she turned for a last 
look at her home, followed slowly with an air 
of great dejection. Then a strange pathos rose 
out of their littleness, and an ancient law 
seemed to be writ upon the faces of the men: 
“Whoso shall offend one of these little ones 
which believe in Me, it were better for him that a 
millstone were hanged about his neck and that 
he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” 

A murmur of disapproval arose, and suddenly 
one voice blared a sacred name coupled and 
qualified with curious adjectives — jumped up, 
279 


Siias Strong 

livin’, sufferin’, eternal — as if it would be most 
explicit. 

“Boys,” the voice added, “I can’t see no 
woman ner no childern treated that way.” 

A man took the satchel out of Sinth’s hand. 

“You stay here,” said he. “We won’t stan’ 
fer this.” 

Another burly woodsman had lifted little Sue 
in his arms. 

“I’m goin’ down the trail to wait fer Silas,” 
said Sinth, brokenly. 

She put out her hand to take the satchel. 

“We’ll carry it an’ the childern too,” said the 
woodsman, whose voice, which had been harsh 
and profane, now had a touch of gentleness. 
They made their way down the trail in silence. 

“ He better try t’ be a statesman,” said one of 
the escort. “He ain’t fit t’ be a bullcook.” 

They passed a second gang with horses and a 
big jumper bearing supplies for the camp. The 
Emperor had surrendered; the green hills were 
taken. Half a mile or so from the camp Sinth 
halted. 

“I’ll wait here, thank ye,” said she. 

With offers of assistance the men left them and 
returned. 

All through the night Sinth had been thinking 
280 


Silas Strong 

of their new trouble and was in a way prepared 
for the worst. But now, as she was leaving for- 
ever the old, familiar trees and the still water she 
sat down for awhile and covered her face. Al- 
ready the saws had begun their work. She 
could hear them gnawing and hissing and the 
shouts and axes of the woodsmen. Socky and 
Sue came near their aunt and stood looking at 
her, their cheeks tear-stained, their sympathy 
now and then shaking them with half- suppressed 
sobs. The reason for their departure and for 
the coming of the woodsmen they were not able 
to understand. Zeb lay lolling on his stomach, 
bored, but, like his master, hoping for better 
times. 

“Aunt Sinthy — you ’fraid?” Sue ventured to 
ask, and her doll hung limp from her right hand. 

Socky felt his sword and looked up into the 
face of his aunt. 

“Where we goin’?” he asked, with another 
silent sob. 

“ Ton my soul, I dunno,” Sinth answered, 
wearily. 

“Don’t you be ’fraid,” he said, waving his 
sword manfully. 

Sinth took her knitting out of the satchel and 
sat down comfortably on a bed of leaves. Zeb 
281 


19 


Silas Strong 

began to growl and run around them in a circle, 
like the cheerful jester that he was. It seemed 
as if he were trying to remind them that, after 
all, the situation was not hopeless. He con- 
tinued his gyrations until Socky and Sue joined 
him. Soon the big trees began falling and their 
thunder and the hoots of the “briermen” echoed 
far. The children came to their aunt. 

“ What’s that?” they asked, with awe in their 
faces. 

“The trees,” Sinth answered, solemnly. 
“They’re a-mowin’ of ’em down.” 

In a moment, thinking of the young man who 
had heartlessly put her out, she added: 

“ I guess he’ll find he’s hurt himself more’n he 
has us.” 

“Who?” Socky asked. 

“That mehopper.” 

The children turned with a look of interest. 

“What’s a mehopper?” Socky asked. 

Sinth sat looking thoughtfully at her knit- 
ting. 

“ He steals folks’ albums,” said Sue, confident- 
ly, “an’ he can run like a deer.” 

“Ain’t a bit like a deer,” Sinth responded. 
“ He can’t go nowhere but down-hill — that’s why 
ye always find him in low places — an’ he’s so 
282 


Silas Strong 

’fraid folks won’t see him that he swears an’ 
talks about himself.” 

Sue looked at her aunt as if she thought her a 
woman of wonderful parts. 

“He better look out for the Sundayman,” 
Sinth continued. 

“Who’s the Sundayman?” they both asked. 

“He’s a wonderful hunter an’ he ketches all 
the wicked folks,” Sinth answered. “An’ them 
that swears he makes ’em into mehoppers, an’ 
them that does cruel things he turns their hearts 
into stones, an’ them that steals he takes away 
everything they have, an’ if anybody lies he 
makes a fool of ’em so they b’lieve their own 
stories, an’ he takes an’ marks the face of every 
one he ketches so if ye look sharp ye can always 
tell ’em.” 

In a moment they heard some one coming 
down the trail. It was young Mr. Migley who 
suddenly had found himself in the midst of a 
small rebellion. Half his men had threatened to 
“histe the turkey” unless he brought back the 
“ woman and the kids.” It was not their threat 
of quitting that worried him, however — it was a 
consequence more remote and decisive. 

“Miss Strong, I was hot under the collar,” he 
began. “ I didn’t mean to put you out. I want 
283 


Silas Strong 

you to come back and stay as long as you like. 
We can spare you one of the cabins.” 

“No, sir,” Sinth answered, curtly. 

“All right,” said he, “you’re the doctor.” 

In a moment she asked, “ What you goin’ t’ do 
with them sick folks that’s camped over at 
Robin?” 

“I won’t hurry ’em,” said he; “but they’ll 
have t’ git out before long.” 

“ It’s a shame,” Sinth answered. “ You oughto 
hev consumption an’ see how you’d like it.” 

“There are plenty of hotels east of here.” 

“ But they’re poor folks an’ can’t afford to pay 
board, even if they’d let ’em in, which they 
wouldn’t.” 

“I can’t help it — we’ve got to get these logs 
down to the river before snow flies — it’s busi- 
ness.” 

With him that brief assertion was the end of 
many disputes. They were few that even dared 
question the authority of the old tyrant whom 
Silas had called Business. 

The young man began to walk away. Sinth 
sent a parting shot after him. 

“It’s business,” said she, “to think o’ nobody 
but yerself.” 

It was long past mid-day when Silas came 
284 


Silas Strong 

with the ox. He stood listening, his hands upon 
his hips, while Sinth related the story of their 
leaving camp and of Migley’s effort to bring 
them back. 

“S-Sawed himself off,” said Strong, with a 
smile. “You s-see.” The dethroned Emperor 
turned, suddenly, and drew a line across the trail 
with the butt of his ox-whip. 

“ All t-toe the s-scratch, ” he demanded, soberly. 

He led Sinth and Sue forward and stopped 
them with their toes on the line. He motioned 
to Socky, who took his place by the others. 
Zeb sat in front of them. The boy seemed to 
wonder what was coming. His fingers were 
closed but his thumbs stood up straight accord- 
ing to their habit when the boy’s heart was 
troubled. 

“Th-thumbs down,” Strong commanded. 

He surveyed his forces with an odd look of 
solemnity and playfulness. 

“ S. Strong has been app’inted W-warden o’ 
Rainbow V- valley,” said the exiled Emperor. 
“ F-forward march.” His command was follow- 
ed by a brief appeal to the ox. 

“Purty good luck!” Sinth exclaimed, with a 
look of satisfaction. “ But they’s a lot o’ pirates 
over there — got t’ look out fer ’em.” 

285 


Silas Strong 

“ They’ll m-move,” said Strong, as if he had no 
worry about that. 

Slowly they went up the trail and soon re- 
entered Lost River camp. The young lumber- 
man saw them coming and went off into the 
woods. 

Some men, who had been at work near, gath- 
ered about the Emperor and offered to stand by 
him as long as he wished to remain. Strong 
shook his head. “W-we got t’ g-go,” he stam- 
mered. He looked sadly at the fallen tree- 
trunks — at the door-yard, now full of brush. 
“ D-don’t never w-want t’ s-see this place ag’in,” 
he muttered. 

He brought the boat-jumper into camp and 
loaded it. Then with Sinth on the bow seat and 
Socky and Sue behind her they set out, the men 
cheering as they moved away. 

A clear space at the stern afforded room for the 
Emperor if he should wish to get aboard in cross- 
ing water and an axe and paddle were stored on 
either side of it. 

Strong had tacked a notice on one of the trees, 
and it read as follows : 

S STRONG 

has moved to rainbow lake 


286 


Silas Strong 

The camp was now in the shadow of Long 
Ridge. Sinth and the Emperor were silent. 
Bird-songs that rang in the deep, shaded hall of 
the woods had a note of farewell in them. The 
children were laughing and chattering as ox and 
boat - jumper entered the unbroken forest. Zeb 
stood in front of the children, his forefeet on 
the gunwale, and seemed to complain of their 
progress. 

It was, in a way, historic, that journey of the 
boat-jumper, that parting of the ancient wood 
and the last of its children. Their expedition 
carried about all that was left of the spirit of the 
pioneer — his ingenuity, his dauntless courage, 
his undying hope of “ better times/' The hollow 
log, with its heart hewn out of it, groaning on 
its way to the sown land, suggested the fate of 
the forest. Now, soon, the Lost River coun- 
try would have roads instead of trails, and 
its emperor would be a common millionaire. 
The jumper and the woodsman had had their 
day. 

Slowly they pursued their way, skirting thick- 
ets and going around fallen trees, and stop- 
ping often to clear a passage. Strong followed, 
gripping the handles that rose well above the 
stern of his odd craft, and so he served as a 
287 


Silas Strong 

rudder and support. An ox is able to go in soft 
footing, and they struck boldly across a broad 
swamp nearly three miles down the river 
shore. 

It was near sundown when they camped for 
the night far down the outlet of Catamount 
Pond. Strong put up a small tent and bottomed 
it with boughs while Sinth was getting supper 
ready. Their work done, they sat before the 
camp-fire and Sinth told tales of the wilderness. 
Sile sang again “ The Story of the Mellered Bear,” 
and also an odd bit of nonsense which was, in 
part, a relic of old times. The first line of each 
stanza came out slowly and solemnly while the 
second ran as fast as he could move his tongue. 
In his old memorandum-book he referred to it as 
“ The Snaik Song,” and it ran as follows : 


THE SNAKE SONG 



288 


Silas Strong 



“In a sartin village there did dwell 
A very fine gal an’ I knew her well, 

Chorus 

Ry-tiddy-iddy-ay, ry-tiddy-iddy-ay, 
Ry-tiddy-iddy-iddy-iddy-odd-i-ay. 

And one fine morning she did go 
Down in the meadow for to mow. 

Chorus 

And the very first thing that she did feel 
Was a big black snake a-bitin’ of her heel. 

Chorus 

An’ her heel wasn’t bigger than a robin’s egg 
An’ the first she knew he swallered up her leg. 

Chorus 

An’ when he was tryin* fer to carry her off 
She wiggled her toes ’til she made him cough. 

Chorus 

An* that did end the serpent’s fun. 

For he coughed her up an’ away she run. 
Chorus’* 

289 


Silas Strong 

Strong whittled as he sang, and soon presented 
the girl with a straight rod of yellow osier upon 
which he had carved the brief legend, “ Su — her 
snaik stick.” If she held to that, he explained, 
no snake would be able to swallow her. 

“I want one, too,” said Socky. 

“ You m-mean a bear stick,” Strong answered. 
“ Girls have t’ 1-look out fer s-snakes an’ boys for 
b-bears.” 

They were all asleep on their bough beds be- 
fore eight o’clock. 

At that hour which Strong was wont to desig- 
nate as “ jes’ daylight” he was on his feet again. 
Whether early or late to bed he was always 
awake before dawn. Some invisible watcher 
seemed to warn him of the coming of the light. 
He held to one ot the ancient habits of the race, 
for he began every day by kneeling to start a 
fire. He bent his head low and brought his lips 
near it as if the flame were a sacred thing and 
he its worshipper. 

For a time that morning he was careful not 
to disturb the others. But having attended to 
Patrick, he hurried to call the children. He 
hurried for fear that Sinth would forestall him. 
Fie loved to wake and wait upon them and hear 
their chatter. Their confidence in his power 
290 


Silas Strong 

over all perils had become a sweet and sacred 
sort of flattery in the view of Silas. He had, too, 
a curious delight in seeing and feeling their little 
bodies while he helped them to dress. Somehow 
it had all made him think less of the pleasures of 
the wild country and more of Lady Ann. That 
“someday’’ of his laconic pledge was drawing 
nearer and its light was in every hour of his life. 
The children were leading him out of the brother- 
hood of the forest into that of men. 

He lifted the sleeping boy in his arms and 
gently woke him. Zeb had followed and put his 
cold nose on the ear of Sue. Soon the children 
were up and the Emperor kneeling before them, 
while his great hands awkwardly held a “ teenty ” 
pair of stockings. 

Sinth awoke and jealousy remarked, “Huh! 
I should think you was plumb crazy ’bout them 
air childern.” 

Strong smiled and left them to her and began 
to prepare breakfast. 

Soon all were on their way again, heading for 
the lower valley of Lost River. They crossed 
two ridges and entered a wide swamp. There 
were many delays, for they encountered fallen 
trees which had to be cleared away with axe and 
lever, while here and there Strong gave the ox 
291 


Silas Strong 

a footing of corduroy. It was a warm day and 
the children fell asleep after an hour or so. Sinth, 
who had been tossed about until speech wearied 
her tongue and put it in some peril, sank into 
sighful resignation. 

The jumper had stopped; Strong had gone 
ahead to look out his way. Reaching higher 
ground he saw man tracks and followed them to 
an old trail. Soon a piece of white paper pinned 
to a tree-trunk caught his eye. He stopped and 
read this warning: 

“To Sile Strong 

“You haint goin t’ find the Rainbow country helthy 
place. If you go thare youll git hung up by the heels. 
I mean business.” 

The Emperor took off his faded crown. He 
scratched his head thoughtfully. That message 
was probably inspired by some lawless man who 
had felt the authority of the woods lover and who 
wanted no more of it. He had heard that Migley 
had four camps on the Middle Branch, between 
there and Rainbow, and that they were full of 
“ cutthroats.’ ’ That was a word that stood for 
deer-slayers and all dare-devil men. 

Whoever had put this threat in the way of the 
Emperor had probably heard of his appoint- 
292 


Silas Strong 

ment and was trying to scare him away. The 
offender might have been sent by Migley himself. 

“ W-We’il s-see,” Strong muttered, with a stern 
look, as he returned to the boat-jumper. Many 
had threatened him, one time or another, but he 
never worried over that kind of thing. To-day, 
as on many occasions, he kept his tongue sinless 
by keeping his mouth shut, and, touching his 
discovery on the trail, said only the two words, 
“W-we’ll see,” and said them to himself. He 
didn’t believe in spreading trouble. 

Slowly they made their way to a bend in Lost 
River far from the old camp. As they halted 
to seek entrance to the water channel Strong 
came forward and poked the children playfully 
until they opened their eyes. Then he put a 
hand on either shoulder of Sinth and gave her a 
little shake. 

“How ye f-feelin’?” he asked. 

“Redic’lous,” she answered, “settin’ here ’n a 
holler tree jest as if we was a fam’ly o’ raccoons.” 
It was the most impatient remark she had made 
in many days. 

“B-Better times!” said the Emperor. He 
smiled and sat down to rest on the side of the 
boat -jumper. He turned to the boy and asked, 
hopefully, “How ’bout yer Uncle S-Silas?” 

293 


Silas Strong 

It had been rough, adventurous riding, but 
full of delight for the children. That morning 
their uncle had loomed into heroic and satis- 
factory proportions. Socky had long been think- 
ing of the little silver compass Master had given 
him one day and which hung on a ribbon tied 
about his neck. He hoped they might be going 
where there would be other boys and girls. He 
had been considering how to give to his uncle’s 
person a touch of grandeur and impressiveness 
fitting the story of the “mellered bear” and his 
power and skill as a hunter. Soberly he re- 
moved the ribbon from his neck and presented 
the shiny trinket to his uncle. 

“ Put that on yer neck,” said he, proudly. 

“ Wh-what ?” his uncle stammered. 

“ C’ris’mus present,” said the boy, with a seri- 
ous look. 

The Emperor took off his faded crown. He 
put the ribbon over his head so that the com- 
pass dangled on his breast. 

“There,” said Socky, “that looks a little 
better.” 

In a moment, with that prudence which al- 
ways kept the last bridge between himself and 
happiness, he added, “You can let me have it 
nights.” 


294 


Silas Strong 

Every night since it fell to his possession he 
had gone forth into the land of dreams with 
that compass held firmly in his right hand. 

“Here’s twenty-five cents,” said Sue, holding 
out the sacred coin which her nurse had given 
her, and which, on her way into the forest, had 
been set aside for a sacrifice to the great man 
of her dreams. At last the two had accepted 
him, without reserve, as worthy of all honor. 
They could still wish for more in the way of 
personal grandeur, supplied in part by the 
glittering compass, but something in him had 
satisfied their hearts if not their eyes. He was 
again their sublime, their wonderful Emperor. 

“You better keep it; you’re going to buy an 
album for Aunt Sinthy,” the boy warned her. 

Her little hand closed half-way on the silver; 
it wavered and fell in her lap. She seemed to 
weigh the coin between her thumb and finger. 
She looked from the man to the woman. Socky 
saw her dilemma and felt for her. 

“I’ll get her an album myself,” he proposed. 
In that world of magic where he lived nothing 
could discourage his faith and generosity. Their 
uncle lifted them in his arms and held them 
against his breast without speaking. 

“You’ve squeezed them childern till they’re 
295 


Silas Strong 

black in the face,” said Sinth, who now stood 
near him with a look of impatience. 

She took them out of his arms and held them 
closer, if possible, than he had done. 

At the edge of the stream he shouted, “All 
’board!” The others took their seats, and the 
Emperor sat in the stern with his paddle. Socky 
faced him so that he could see the compass. 
He often asked, proudly, “ Which way we goin’ ?” 
and Strong would look at the compass and 
promptly return the information, “ Sou’ by east.” 

The river ran shallow for more than a mile in 
the direction of their travel. Patrick hauled 
them slowly down the edge of the current. 
Strong steadied and steered with his paddle as 
they crept along, bumping over stones and 
grinding over gravel until, at a sloping, sandy 
beach on the farther shore, they mounted the 
bank and headed across Huckleberry Plain. 

Noon-time had passed when they left the hot 
plain. They threaded a narrow fringe of tama- 
racks and entered thick woods again. At a 
noisy little stream near by they stopped for din- 
ner. Strong caught some trout and built a fire 
and fried them, and made coffee. Sinth spread 
the dishes and brought sandwiches and cheese 
and a big, frosted cake and a can of preserved 
296 


Silas Strong 

berries from the boat-jumper. They sat down 
to the reward of honest hunger where the pure, 
cool air and the sylvan scene and the sound of 
flowing water were more than meat to them, if 
that were possible. 

Having eaten, they rose and pressed on with 
a happy sense of refreshment. A thought of it 
was to brighten many a less cheerful hour. Half 
a mile from their camping-place they found a 
smooth trail which led across level country to 
the Middle Branch. Socky and Sue were again 
fast asleep on the bottom of the boat-jumper long 
before they reached the river. When they halt- 
ed near its bank a broad stream of deep, slow 
water lay before them. Strong unhitched the 
ox and led him along shore until he came to 
rapids where, half a mile below, the river took its 
long, rocky slope to lower country. There he 
tethered his ox and returned to fetch the others. 
He launched his boat- jumper and got aboard 
and paddled carefully down-stream. 

Having doubled a point, they came in sight 
of a slim boy who stood by the water’s edge aim- 
ing an ancient, long-barrelled gun. His head, 
which rested against the breech, seemed, as the 
Emperor reported, “ ’bout the size of a pippin.” 

“L-look out!” Strong shouted, as the boy 
*o 297 


Silas Strong 

lowered his gun to regard the travellers with an 
expression of deep concern. 

“See any mushrats?” the boy asked, eagerly. 

“N-no; who ’re you?” 

“Jo Henyon.” 

Strong had heard of old Henyon, who was 
known familiarly as “Mushrat Bill.” For years 
Bill had haunted the Middle Branch. 

“Wh-where d’ ye live?” 

“Yender,” said the boy, pointing down- 
stream as he ran ahead of them. 

Presently they came to an old cabin near the 
water’s edge with a small clearing around it. 
A woman wearing a short skirt and Shaker 
bonnet stood on one leg looking down at them. 
Children were rushing out of the cabin door. 

“ My land! where’s her other leg ?” Sinth mused. 

The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the 
strange woman. 

“F-folks are like cranes over in this c-coun- 
try,” Strong answered. “Always rest on one 
leg.” 

He drove his bow on a sloping, sandy beach. 
The woman hopped into the cabin door. Her 
many children hurried to the landing. A man 
with head and feet bare followed them. An old 
undershirt, one suspender, and a tattered pair of 
298 


Silas Strong 

overalls partly covered his body. He walked 
slowly towards the shore. He was the famous 
trapper of the Middle Branch. 

“F-fur to Rainbow T-Trail?” Strong inquired 
of him. 

The latter put his hand to his ear and said, 
“What?” Strong repeated his query in a much 
louder voice. 

“ Fur ain’t very thick,” the stranger answered. 

Strong perceived that the man was very deaf 
and also that he was devoted to one idea. 

“B-big fam’ly,” he shouted, as he began to 
push off. 

The trapper, with his hand to his ear and still 
looking a bit doubtful, answered, “ Ain’t runnin’ 
very big this year.” 

Thereafter the word “ mushrats,” in the vocab- 
ulary of Strong, stood for unworthy devotion to 
a single purpose. 

Down-stream a little the ox took his place 
again at the bow of the boat- jumper. They 
struck off into thick woods reaching far and 
wide on the acres of Uncle Sam. A mile or so 
inland they came to Rainbow Trail, and there- 
after followed it. Timber thieves had been 
cutting big pines and spruces and had left a 
slash on either side of the trail. 

299 


Silas Strong 

The travellers dipped down across the edge 
of a wide valley, and after climbing again were in 
the midst of burned ground on the top of a high 
ridge. Below them they could see Rainbow 
Lake and the undulating canopy of a great, 
two-storied forest reaching to hazy distances. 
Mighty towers of spruce and pine and hemlock 
rose into the sunlit, upper heavens. 

It was growing dusk when, below them and 
well off the trail, they saw a column of smoke 
rising. They halted, and Strong stood gazing. 
The smoke grew in volume and he made off down 
the side of the ridge. He came in sight of the fire 
and stopped. Some one had fled through thick- 
ets of young spruce and Zeb was pursuing him. 

Strong looked off in the gloomy forest and 
shouted a fierce oath at its invisible enemy. 

Near him flames were leaping above a fallen 
top and running in tiny jets over dry duff like^ 
the waste of a fountain. Swiftly Strong cut 
branches of green birch and began to lay about 
him. He stopped the flames and then dug with 
his hatchet until he struck sand. He scooped it 
into his hat and soon smothered the cinders. 

His face had a troubled expression as he re- 
turned to the boat-jumper. 

“Who you been yellin’ at?” Sinth asked. 

3 °° 


Silas Strong 

C-careless cuss,” he answered, evasively. 

Socky wore a look of indignation. He glibly 
repeated the oath which he had heard his uncle 
use. 

“ Hush! The Sundayman ’ll ketch you,” Sinth 
answered, severely. 

Strong gave a whistle of surprise. 

“ Uncle Silas ain’t ’fraid o’ no Sundayman,” 
Socky guessed. 

“ Y - yes I be — could kill me with a s-snap of 
his finger,” Strong declared. 

Socky trembled as he thought of that one in- 
habitant of the earth who was greater than his 
Uncle Silas and said no more. 

“S-see here, boy,” said Strong, as he put his 
fingers under Socky ’s chin and raised his head 
a little, “ I w-won’t never swear ag’in if y-you 
won’t.” 

He held out his great hand and Socky took it. 

“Y-you agree?” 

Socky nodded with a serious look, and so it 
happened that Silas became the master of his own 
tongue. He had “boiled over” for the last time 
— so he thought. The old habit which had 
grown out of a thousand trials and difficulties 
must give way, and henceforth he would be 
emperor of his own spirit. 

301 


Silas Strong 

As to the fire and the man who had fled be- 
fore him, Strong was perplexed, but kept his 
own counsel. He knew that officials permitted 
lumbermen to enter burned lands on the State 
preserve and take all timber which fire had dam- 
aged. A fire which might only have scorched the 
trunks while it devoured the crowns above them 
gave a rich harvest to some lucky lumberman. 
Having gained access, he stripped the earth, 
helping himself to the living as well as the dead 
trees. Fire, therefore , had become a source of 
profit wherein lay the temptation to kindle it. 

Silas Strong knew that his land of refuge was 
doomed — that the forerunner of its desolation 
was even then hiding somewhere in the near, 
dusky woods. He thought of the peril after a 
dry summer. The mould of the forest would 
burn like tinder. 

The dethroned Emperor reached the shore of 
Rainbow, put up a tent, and helped to get supper 
ready. After supper he lay down to rest in the 
firelight, and told the children about the great 
bear and the panther-bird. Sinth, weary afte r 
that long day of travel, had gone to sleep. After 
an hour or so Strong rose and looked down at her. 

“ Sh-sh! — don’t w-wake her,” he warned them. 
“I’ll put ye t’ b-bed.” 


3°2 


Silas Strong 

He helped them undress. 

“ You’ll have to hear our prayers,” Socky 
whispered. 

Strong nodded. He sat on a box and they 
knelt between his knees and he put his hands on 
their heads and bowed his own. 

When they had finished he bent lower and 
dictated this brief kind of postscript, “An’ keep 
us from all d-danger this n-night.” 

They repeated the words with no suspicion of 
what lay behind them. 

Then Socky whispered, “ Say something ’bout 
the Sundayman.” 

“An’ keep the Sundayman away,” Strong 
added. 

They repeated the words, and then, as if his 
heart were still unsatisfied, Socky added these, 
“An’ please take care o’ my Uncle Silas.” 

The Emperor lay thinking long after his weary 
companions had gone to sleep. He thought of 
that angry outcry and his heart smote him; he 
thought of the danger. Perhaps, after all, they 
would not dare to burn the woods now. But 
Strong resolved to keep awake and be ready for 
trouble if it came. By -and -by he lighted a 
lantern and wrote in his old memorandum-book 
as follows: 


3°3 


Silas Strong 

“Strong use to say prufanity does more harm when 
ye keep it in than when ye let it natcherly drene off 
but among childern it's as ketchin’ as the measles. 
Sounds like thunder when it comes out of a boy’s mouth 
an hits like chain lightnin.” 

Long before midnight rain began to fall. 
Strong rose and went out under the trees and 
lifted his face and hands, in a picturesque and 
priestlike attitude, to feel the grateful drops and 
whispered, “Thank God!” It was a gentle 
shower but an hour of it would be enough. He 
went back to his bed and lay listening. The 
faded leaves that still clung in the maple-tops 
above them rattled like a thousand tambou- 
rines. After an hour of the grateful downpour 
Strong’s fear abated and he “let go” and sank 
into deep slumber. 

Almost the last furrow in the old sod of his 
character had been turned. 


XXXI 


HE sun rose clear next morning. 
Although a long shower of rain 
had come one could see no sign of 
it save in the drifted leaves. The 
earth had drunk it down quickly 
and seemed to be drying with its own heat. 
Strong felt the soil and the leaves. He blew 
and shook his head with surprise. 

While the others lay sleeping in their tent, 
he made a fire and set out in quest of a spring. 
Half a mile or so up the lake shore a bear broke 
out of a thicket of young firs just ahead of him. 
Strong was caught again without his rifle. 
Satan came as swiftly as the bear had fled, but 
could not prevail against him. Strong was de- 
lighted with this chance of showing the strength 
of his new purpose. In among the fir-trees he 
found the carcass of a buck upon which the 
bear had been feeding. 

“ P -paunch ers!” Strong muttered. 

He climbed the side of the ridge and presently 
3°5 




Silas Strong 

struck the trail leading into camp. Soon he 
could hear some one coming, and sat on a log 
and waited. It was Master, who had gone to 
Lost River camp and then followed the trail of 
the boat-jumper. 

“Slept last night in a lean-to over on the 
Middle Branch,” said he. “Been travelling 
since an hour before daylight and I’m hungry.” 

“N-news from the gal?” 

“No. Have you?” 

Strong shook his head solemnly. “They’ve 
t-took the hills, an’ I’ve come over here t’ work 
fer Uncle S-sam,” said he. 

“Warden ?” 

“Uh-huh — been app’inted,” Strong answered, 
with a look of sadness and satisfaction. 

“They’re very cunning — Wilbert and the rest 
of them,” Master said. “They’ve put a little 
salve on you and sent yon out of the way. 
You’re too serious - minded for them. That 
dynamite trick of yours set ’em all thinking. 
They won’t keep you here long — you’re too 
dead in earnest. But there’s room enough for 
you over in the Clear Lake country, and when 
they get ready to shove you out come and be 
at home with us.” 

A moment of silence followed. The simple 
306 


Silas Strong 

mind of the woodsman was looking deep into 
the darkness that surrounded the throne of the 
great king. 

“You’re camp looks as if it had been struck 
by lightning,” Master added. 

Strong showed the letter containing his ap- 
pointment, and told of the threat to hang him 
up by the heels. 

“The commissioner is on the square — he 
means well,” said Master, “but they’re using 
him. These lumbermen intend to drive you 
out of the woods, and they’ve got you headed 
for the clearing. You won’t stay here long. In 
my opinion they’ll burn this valley.” 

Strong looked into the face of the young 
man. 

“What makes ye think so?” he asked. 

“ Because they want the timber, and because 
they’ve got you here,” said Master. “I heard 
of your appointment. I heard, too, that Joe 
Socket and Pop Migley and Dennis Mulligan 
thought you were the right man for the place. 
I knew there ’d be something doing, and I came in 
here to warn you. Don’t ever trust the benev- 
olence of Satan.” 

“By — ” Strong paused and gave his thigh 
a slap. “I know w-what they’re up to,” he 
3 ° 7 


Silas Strong 

muttered, thoughtfully. “They’ll make it too 
hot f-fer m-me here.” 

He told of the fire and the man who fled in 
the bushes. 

“They’re going to fire the valley, and don’t 
intend to give you time to sit down,” said Mas- 
ter. “It’s a dangerous country just now.” 

“Have t’ take Sinth an’ the ch-childem out 
o’ here r-right off,” the hunter answered. “If 
you’ll stay with ’em t’-day, I’ll go an’ g-git some 
duffle an’ we’ll p-put over the r-ridge with ’em 
t ’-night.” 

Back at the old camp there were things he 
needed sorely, and he reckoned that he could 
make the round trip with a pack-basket by five 
in the afternoon. 

“ It’s still and the leaves are d-damp,” Strong 
mused. “Fire wouldn’t run much t’-day.” 

“To-morrow I’ll get a force of men and we’ll 
surround this valley,” said Master. 

They hurried into camp and were greeted 
with merry cries. Soon they were sitting on a 
blanket beside the others, eating in the ancient 
fashion of the pioneer. 

The young man had brought a letter from 
Gordon which contained a sum of money and 
welcome news. Sinth read the letter aloud. 

308 


Silas Strong 

“ ‘ My dear friends, ’ ” she read, “ * I had hoped 
to write you long ago, but I have been waiting for 
better news to tell. My struggle is over and I 
am now master of myself. I paid to my credi- 
tors all the money you gave me.’ ” 

“Did you give him money?” Sinth looked up 
to inquire. 

“Uh-liuh,” Strong answered. 

“ How much?” 

“All I had.” 

“You’re a fool!” Sinth exclaimed, and went 
on reading as follows : 

“ ‘ Socky had given me his little tin bank. It 
contained just a dollar and thirty-two cents. 
The sacred sum paid my fare to Benson Falls 
and bought my dinner. I got a job there in 
the mill and soon I expect to be its manager. 
I’m a new man. If you want a job I can place 
you here at good pay. In a week or two I 
shall—’” 

Sinth stopped reading and covered her face 
with her apron. 

“What does it s-say?” Silas inquired, so- 
berly. 

She handed the letter to him, and he read 
the last words : “ ‘ I shall come after the children 
and will then pay you in full with interest. No, 

309 


Silas Strong 

I can never pay you in full, for there’s some- 
thing better than money that I owe you.’” 

Strong’s face changed color. He dropped the 
letter and rose. 

“ W-well,” he stammered. 

“He sha’n’t have ’em,” said Sinth, decisively. 
“Tut, tut!” Silas answered. 

He raised the boy in his arms and kissed him. 
“W-we’re both f-fools,” he said, huskily. 

“You ain’t exac’ly fools, but yer both chil- 
dern,” said Sinth, wiping her eyes. 

“ Well, you know the Bible says we must be- 
come as a little child,” said Master. “After all, 
money is only a measure of value, and one thing 
it does with absolute precision — a man’s money 
measures the depth of his heart.” 


XXXII 


TRONG left camp with his pack 
and rifle and two bear-traps. He 
was nearing the dead buck when 
a shot stopped him, and a bullet 
cut through his left fore-arm. The 
deadly missile came no swifter than his under- 
standing of it. 

He dropped as if a death-blow had struck him, 
and, clinging to his rifle, crept in among the firs. 
He flung off the straps of his basket. He lay 
still a moment and then cautiously got to his 
knees. Blood was trickling down his hand, but 
he gave no heed to it. The ball had come from 
higher ground, towards which he had been walk- 
ing. The man who had tried to kill him could 
not have stood more than two hundred feet 
away. Strong sat, rifle in hand, peering through 
the fir branches — alert as a panther waiting for 
its prey. Soon he caught a glimpse of his 
enemy fleeing between distant tree columns. 
The sight seemed to fill him with deadly anger. 

31* 




Silas Strong 

He leaped to his feet, seized his pack -basket, 
and started swiftly in pursuit of him. He 
gained the summit of the high ground and saw 
a broad slash covered with berry bushes and 
sloping to the flats around Bushrod Creek. A 
trail cut through it from the edge of the woods 
near him. 

He stopped and listened. He could hear the 
sound of retreating footsteps and could see 
briers moving some thirty rods down the slash. 
His heart had shaken off its rage. He was now 
the cunning, stealthy, determined hunter. He 
saw a dry, stag-headed pine in the edge of the 
briers near him and hurried up its shaft like a 
bear pressed by the dogs. On a dead limb, 
some thirty feet above ground, he halted and 
looked away. He could see nothing of his un- 
known foe. 

Slowly Strong descended from the dead tree. 
He had just begun to feel the pain of his wound. 
Blood was dripping fast from it; he looked like 
a butcher in the midst of his task. He muttered 
as he began to roll his sleeve, “ G-guess they do 
inten’ t’ shove me out o’ this c-country.” 

He blew as he looked at the wound. 

“B-Business is p-prosperin’,” he went on, as 
he held one end of a big red handkerchief be- 
3 12 


Silas Strong 

tween his teeth and wound it above the torn 
muscles and firmly knotted the ends. 

“W-war!” he muttered, as he went to the 
near bushes and began to gather spiders’ 
webs. 

It is to be regretted that for a moment he 
forgot his promise to Socky and “boiled over” 
from the heat of his passion. 

He sat on the ground and with his knife scraped 
away the blood clots. 

“D-damn soft-nose bullet!” he muttered, with 
a serious look, smoothing down the fibres of 
torn flesh. 

He spread the webs upon his wound, and held 
them close awhile under his great palm. Soon 
he moistened a lot of tobacco and put it on the 
webs and held it there. After an hour or so 
the blood stopped. Then, gradually, he relieved 
the tension of his handkerchief, and by-and-by 
used it for a bandage on his wound. 

He rose and shouldered his pack and began 
to search for the tracks of his enemy. He soon 
discovered those of the bear which had fled be- 
fore him that morning. 

“S-see here, Strong,” he muttered, “th-this 
won’t scurcely do. I arrest you, S. Strong, 
Esquire. Y-you’re my prisoner. T-trym’ t’ 

21 313 


Silas Strong 

kill a man — you b -bloodthirsty devil! C-come 
with me. We’ll hunt fer b-bears.” 

The Emperor had often addressed himself 
with severe and even copious condemnation, 
but this was the first time that he had ever 
taken S. Strong by the coat-collar and violently 
faced him about. 

He could see clearly where the bear had 
broken through the wet briers on his way down 
to the flat country. It was a moment of peril, 
and he gave himself no time for argument. He 
hurried away in the trail of the bear. It lay 
before him, unmistakable as the wake of a boat, 
and would show where the animal was wont to 
cross the water below. He came soon to a 
great log lying from shore to shore of that inlet 
of Rainbow which was called Bushrod Creek. 
He could see tracks near the end of the log, and 
there, with a spruce pole -for a lever, he set his 
traps in the sand so that, if the first were not 
sprung, the second would be sure to take hold. 
He covered the great, yawning, seven-toothed 
jaws of steel and fastened heavy clogs upon 
both trap chains. Then he took the piece of 
bacon from his pack and hung it on a branch 
above the traps. 

Shrewdly the hunter had made his plan. 

3i4 


Silas Strong 

That bear would probably return to the dead 
buck, and the scent of the bacon would attract 
him to that particular crossing. 

He tore two pages from his memorandum- 
book, and wrote this warning on each : 

“ Stop traps ahed 

“S. Strong.” 

He fastened them to stakes and posted them 
on. two sides of the point of danger. 

It was then past eleven and too late for the 
long journey to Lost River camp. He decided 
to go to Henyon’s on the Middle Branch and 
get the trapper to come and keep watch while 
he took Sinth and the children to Benson Falls. 

On his way out of the slash he killed a deer, 
and dressed and hung him on a tree. Then he 
set out for the trail to Henyon’s. 

He had walked for an hour or so when his 
pace began to slacken. 

“T-y-ty!” he whispered, stopping suddenly. 
“S. Strong, what’s the m-matter? Yer all of 
a- tremble.” 

Strong felt sick and weary, and took off his 
pack and sat down to rest on a bed of leaves. 
Then he discovered that the handkerchief upon 
3i5 


Silas Strong 

his arm was dripping wet. Again he stopped 
the blood by cording. 

He lay back on the ground suffering with 
faintness and acute pain. Soon obeying the 
instinct of man and beast, which prompts one 
to hide his weakness and even his death-throes, 
he crept behind the top of a fallen tree. 

His heart had been overstrained of late by 
worry and heavy toil. Now for the first time 
he could feel it laboring a little as if it missed 
the blood which had been dripping slowly but 
steadily from his arm. At last a day was come 
that had no pleasure in it — a day when the 
keepers of the house had begun to tremble. 

Soon the warm sunlight fell through forest 
branches on the great body of Strong, who had 
lost command of himself and become the 
prisoner of sleep. 

In the memorandum-book there is an entry 
without date in a script of unusual size. Those 
large letters were made slowly and with a trem- 
bling hand. It was probably written while he 
sat there in the lonely, autumn woods before 
giving up to his weakness. This is the entry: 

“Theys days when I dont blieve God is over per- 
ticklar with a man bout swearin.” 

316 


XXXIII 


OON after breakfast that morning 
Master had hitched the ox to the 
boat- jumper. 

“My land! Where ye goin , ? ,, 
Sinth inquired. 

“To-morrow we’re going out to Benson Falls 
with you and the children,” said Master. “I 
thought we’d better take the ox and what things 
you need to-day as far as Link Harris’s. That’s 
about four miles down the Leonard trail. The 
ox will have all he can do to-morrow if he starts 
from Harris’s.” 

The young man said nothing of another pur- 
pose which he had in mind — that of learning, as 
soon as possible, the nearest way out of the 
Rainbow country. 

“What does that mean?” Sinth asked. 

“Only this — we may have trouble with these 
pirates, and we want to get you out of the 
way. We’ll have to travel, and we can’t 
leave you in the camp alone. You and the 
3i7 



Silas Strong 

children can ride over, and we’ll come back 
afoot.” 

So Sinth packed her satchels and a big camp- 
bag, and all made the journey to Harris’s where 
they left the ox and the jumper. 

It was near six o’clock when they returned 
to the little camp at Rainbow. Strong was not 
there, and after supper, while the dusk fell, they 
sat on a blanket by the fire, and Sinth raked the 
old scrap-heap of family history to which a 
score of ancestors had contributed, each in his 
time. It was all a kind of folk-lore — mouldy, 
rusty, distorted, dreamlike. It told of bears 
in the pig-pen, of moose in the door-yard, of 
panthers glaring through the windows at night, 
of Indians surrounding the cabin, and of the 
torture by fire and steel. 

At bedtime Silas had not arrived. Sinth, 
however, showed no sign of worry. He knew the 
woods so well, and there were bear and fish and 
sundry temptations, each greater than his bed. 

“Mebbe he’s took after a bear,” Sinth sug- 
gested, while she began to undress the children. 

“You remember we heard him shoot soon 
after he left here,” said Master. “ It may be he 
wounded a bear and followed him.” 

“Like as not,” she answered. 

318 


Silas Strong 

In a moment she put her hand on Master’s 
arm and whispered to him. 

“Say,” said she, “I don’t want to make 
trouble, but if I was you I wouldn’t wait no 
longer for that old fool.” 

She stabbed the needles into her ball of yarn 
and rolled up her knitting. She continued, with 
a sigh of impatience: 

“I’d go over to Buckhorn an’ git that girl, if 
I had to bring ’er on my back.” 

“That’s about what I propose to do,” said 
the young man, with a laugh. 

“I’m sick o’ this dilly-dallyin’,” said Sinth, 
“an’ I guess she is, too.” 

With that she led Socky and Sue into the tent. 

When the others had gone to bed Master be- 
gan to think of the shot which had broken the 
silence of the autumn woods that morning. He 
lighted a lantern and followed as nearly as he 
could the direction his friend had taken. By- 
and-by he stopped and whistled on his thumb 
and stood listening. The woods were silent. 
Soon he could see where Strong had crossed a 
little run and roughed the leaves beyond it. 
Master followed his tracks and came to the 
dead deer. He saw that a bear had found it, 
and near by there were signs of a struggle and 
3*9 


Silas Strong 

of fresh blood. Now satisfied that Strong had 
shot and followed the bear, he hurried back to 
camp. 

He spread a blanket before the fire and lay- 
down to think and rest in the silence. Buck- 
horn was only four miles from the upper end of 
Rainbow. One could put his canoe in the 
Middle Branch and go without a carry to the 
outlet of Slender Lake — little more than a great 
marsh — then up the still water to a landing 
within half an hour of Dunmore’s. He would 
make the journey in a day or two, and, if pos- 
sible, take the girl out of the woods. 

The night was dark and still. He could hear 
now and then the fall of a dead leaf that gave 
a ghostly whisper as it brushed through high 
branches on its way down. 

Suddenly another sound caught his ear. He 
rose and listened. It was a distant, rhythmic 
beat of oars on the lake. Who could be cross- 
ing at that hour? He walked to the shore and 
stood looking off into inky darkness. He could 
still hear the sound of oars. Some one was row- 
ing with a swift, nervous, jumping stroke, and 
the sound was growing fainter. Somehow it 
quickened the pulse of the young man a little — 
he wondered why. 


320 


XXXIV 


ASTER returned to the fire and 
lay back on his blanket. Little 
puffs of air had begun to rattle 
the dead leaves above him. Soon 
he could hear a wind coming over 
the woodland. It was like the roar of dis- 
tant sea -billows. Waves of wind began to 
whistle in the naked branches overhead. In a 
moment the main flood of the gale was roaring 
through them, and every tree column had be- 
gun to creak and groan. Master rose and looked 
up at the sky. He could see a wavering glow 
through the tree-tops. The odor of smoke was 
in the air. He ran to call Miss Strong, and met 
her coming out of her tent. She had smelled 
the smoke and quickly dressed. 

“My land, the woods are afire!” she cried. 

The sky had brightened as if a great, golden 
moon were rising. 

Sinth ran back into her tent and woke the 
children. With swift and eager hands the 
321 



Silas Strong 

young man helped her while she put on their 
clothes. She said not a word until they were 
dressed. Then, half blinded by thickening 
smoke and groping on her way to the other 
tent, she said, despairingly, “I wonder where 
Silas is?” 

A great, feathery cinder fell through the tree- 
tops. 

“Come quick, we must get out of here,” Mas- 
ter called, as he lifted the crying children. 
“We’ve no time to lose.” 

She flung some things in a satchel and tried to 
follow. In the smoke it was difficult to breathe 
and almost impossible to find their way. Mas- 
ter put down the children and tore some rope 
from a tent-side and tied it to the dog’s collar. 
Then he shouted, “Go home, Zeb!” They clung 
to one another while the dog led them into the 
trail. Master had Socky and Sue in his arms. 
He hurried up the long slope of Rainbow Ridge, 
the woman following. 

They could now hear the charge and raven of 
the flames that were tearing into a resinous 
swamp-roof not far away. 

“Cornin’ fast!” Sinth exclaimed. “Can’t see 
or breathe hardly.” 

“Drop your satchel and cling to my coat- 
322 


Silas Strong 

tails,” Master answered, stopping to give her a 
hold. 

A burning rag of rotten timber, flying with 
the wind, caught in a green top above them. It 
broke and fell in flakes of fire. Master flung one 
off his coat-sleeve, and, seizing a stalk of witch- 
hopple, whipped the glow out of them. On 
they pressed, mounting slowly into better air. 
Just ahead of them they could see the wavering 
firelight on their trail. On a bare ledge near 
the summit they stopped to rest their lungs a 
moment. 

They were now above the swift army of flame 
and a little off the west flank of it. They could 
see into a red, smoky, luminous gulf, leagues 
long and wide, beneath the night-shadow. Ten 
thousand torches of balsam and spruce and pine 
and hemlock sent aloft their reeling towers of 
flame and flung their light through the long 
valley. It illumined a black, wind-driven cloud 
of smoke waving over the w T oodland like a dis- 
mal flag of destruction. A great wedge of flame 
was rending its way northward. Sparks leaped 
along the sides of it like fiery dust beneath the 
feet of the conqueror. They rose high and 
drifted over the lake chasm and fell in a sleet 
of fire on the lighted waves. The loose and 
323 


Silas Strong 

tattered jacket of many an old stub was torn 
into glowing rags and scattered by the wind. 
Some hurtled off a mile or more from their source, 
and isolated fountains of flame were spreading 
here and there on balsam flats near the lake 
margin. Some of the tall firs, when first touched 
by the cinder-shower, were like great Christmas- 
trees hung with tinsel and lighted by many 
candles. New -caught flames, bending in the 
wind, had the look of horses at full gallop. Ropes 
and arrows and spears and lances of fire were 
flying and curveting over the doomed woods. 

The travellers halted only for a moment. They 
could feel the heat on their faces. Black smoke 
had begun to roll over the heights around 
them. 

“ It ’ll go up the valley in an hour an’ cut Silas 
off,” Sinth whimpered as they went on. 

“ He must have crossed the valley before now,” 
the young man assured her. 

The woman ran ahead and called, loudly, 
“Silas! Silas!” She continued calling as they 
hurried on through thickening smoke. They 
halted for a word at Leonard’s Trail, which left 
the main thoroughfare to Rainbow, and, going 
down the east side of the ridge, fared away some 
ten miles over hill and dale to the open country. 

3 2 4 


Silas Strong 

It was at right angles with the way of the wind 
and would soon lead them out of danger. 

“Make for Benson Falls with the childem!” 
cried Sinth. “I’m goin’ after Silas.” She knew 
that her brother would surely be coming — that, 
seeing the fire, he would take any hazard to 
reach them. 

Master knew not what to do. He had begun 
to worry about the people at Buckhom, but his 
work was nearer to his hand. It was there at 
the fork in the trail. He sent a loud, far-reach- 
ing cry down the wind, but heard no answer. 

“ He’ll take care of himself — you’d better get 
away from this valley,” he called. 

An oily top had taken fire below and within 
a hundred yards of them. 

“Go, go quick, an’ save them childern!” she 
urged. Then she ran away from him. 

She hurried along the top of the ridge, calling 
as she went. A dim, misty glow filled the 
.cavern of the woods around her. Just ahead 
drops of fire seemed to be dripping through the 
forest roof. It failed to catch. It would let 
her go a little farther, and she pressed on. A 
fold of the great streamer of smoke was rent 
away and rolled up the side of the ridge and 
covered her. She sank upon her knees, nearly 
3 2 5 


Silas Strong 

smothered, and put her skirt over her face. The 
cloud passed in a moment. Her sleeve caught 
fire and she put it out with her hand. She 
felt her peril more keenly and tried to run. She 
heard Zeb sniffing and coughing near. Master 
had let him go, thinking that he might help her 
in some way. She stooped and called to him 
and took hold of the dragging rope. The dog 
pressed on so eagerly that he carried part of 
her weight. A broken bough in a tree-top just 
ahead of her had caught fire and swung like a 
big lantern. She had no sooner passed than 
she heard the tree burst into flame with a sound 
like the frying of fat. She felt her hand sting- 
ing her and saw that a little flame was running 
up the side of her skirt. She cried, “Mercy!” 
and knelt and smothered it with her hands. 
Gasping for breath, she fell forward, her face 
upon the ground. 

“Silas Strong,” she moaned, “you got to 
come quick or I won’t never see you again.” 
The dog heard her and licked her face. 

Down among the ferns and mosses she found a 
stratum of clear air, and in a moment rose and 
reeled a few steps farther. The flank of the 
invader had overrun the heights. Her seeking 
was near its end. Showers of fire were falling 
326 


Silas Strong 

beyond and beside her. She lay down and 
covered her face to protect it from heat and 
smoke. She rose and staggered on, calling loud- 
ly. Then she heard a bark from Zeb and the 
familiar halloo of Silas Strong. 

Through some subtle but sure intuition the 
two had known what to expect of each other 
and had clung to the trail. She saw him run- 
ning out of the smoke-cloud and whipping his 
arms with his old felt hat. One side of his 
beard was burned away. He picked her up 
as if she had been a child and ran down the east 
side of the ridge with her, leaping over logs and 
crashing through fallen tops. Beyond the show- 
ering sparks he stopped and smothered a circle 
of creeping fire on her skirt. Sinth lay in his 
arms moaning and sobbing. He shook her and 
shouted, almost fiercely, “The leetle f-fawns — 
wh-where be they?” 

“Gone with him on Leonard’s Trail,” Sinth 
answered, brokenly. 

He entered a swamp in the dim -lighted forest, 
now running, now striding slowly through fallen 
timber and up to his knees in the damp earth. 
Every moment the air was growing clearer. 
He ran over a hard -wood hill and slackened pace 
while he made his way half across a wide flat. 

3 2 7 


Silas Strong 


When he struck the trail to Benson Falls the 
fire-glow was fainter. Now and then a great, 
rushing billow of light swept over them and 
vanished. He stopped and blew and put Sinth 
on her feet. 

“Hard n-night, sis,” said he, tenderly. 

She stood and made no answer. In a flare 
of firelight he saw that she was holding out one 
of her hands. He struck a match and looked 
at it and made a rueful cluck. The fire of the 
match seemed to frighten her; she staggered 
backward and fell with a cry. He caught her 
up and strode slowly on. Soon she seemed to re- 
cover self-control and lay silent. He was in 
great pain; he was reeling under his burden, 
but he kept on. She put up a hand and felt his 
face. 

“Why, Silas,” she said, in a frightened voice, 
“you’re crying.” 

It was then that he fell to the ground helpless. 


XXXV 


ERROR had begun to spread in 
the wilderness north of Rainbow. 
The smoky wind, the growing fire- 
light had roused all the children 
of the forest. Chattering birds 
rose high and took the way of the wind to 
safety. One could see flying lines of wild-fowl 
in the lighted heavens; faintly, as they passed, 
one could hear their startled cries. Deer ran 
aimlessly through the woods like frightened 
sheep. From scores of camps on lake and 
pond and river — from Buckhorn, from Barsook, 
from Five Ponds, from Sabattis, from Big and 
Little Sandy, from Lost River — people, who had 
seen the fire coming, were on their way out of 
the woods. 

Master ran at first down Leonard's Trail 
with the boy and girl in his arms. Soon his 
thoughts halted him. He had withstood the 
severest trial that may be set before a man. 
To be compelled to seek safety with the chil- 

329 



22 


Silas Strong 

dren, while a woman took the way of peril 
before his eyes, had made him falter a mo- 
ment. 

He hoped that Sinth had left the ridge, now 
overrun with flames, and fled down the slope. 
If so she would be looking for Leonard’s Trail. 
He stopped every few paces and sent a loud 
halloo into the woods. Fire was crackling down 
the side of the ridge. As he looked back it 
seemed to him that the great lake of hell must 
be flooding into the world. 

Soon the trail led him to Sinth, who was on 
her knees and sobbing beside her brother. 

That wiry little woman had struggled there 
alone with energy past all belief. She thought 
only of the danger and forgot her pain. She 
had toiled with the heavy body of her brother, 
as the ant toils with a burden larger than itself, 
dragging it slowly, inch by inch, in the direction 
of Harris’s. She had moved it a distance of 
some fifty feet before she heard the call of Mas- 
ter. Then she fell moaning and clinging to the 
hands of him she loved better, far better even, 
than she had ever permitted herself to know. 
It may well be doubted — O you who have prob- 
ably lost patience with her long ago! — if any- 
thing in human history is more wonderful than 
33o 


Silas Strong 

the lonely struggle of hers in that dim, flaring, 
threatening hell-glow. 

Master quickly knelt by the fallen Emperor. 

“What’s the. matter?” he asked. 

“ He’s gi’n out — done fer me until he can’t do 
no more,” she wailed. 

She put her arms around the great breast of 
the man and laid her cheek upon it tenderly. 
Then her heart, which had always hidden its 
fondness, spoke out in a broken cry: 

“ Silas Strong — speak t’ me. I can’t — I can’t 
spare ye nohow — I can’t spare ye.” 

The children knelt by her and called with 
frightened voices: “Uncle Silas! Uncle Silas!” 

Strong began to move. Those beloved voices 
had seemed to call him back. He put his hand 
on the head of Sinth and drew it close to him. 

“B-better times!” he whispered. “B-better 
times, I tell ye, s-sis!” 

He struggled to his knees. 

“S-say,” he said to Master, “I’ve been shot. 
T-tie yer han’kerchief ’r-round my arm quick.” 

The young man tied his handkerchief as 
directed. Then Strong tried to rise, but his 
weight bore him down. 

“Lie still,” said Master. “I can carry you.” 

He took the rope from Zeb’s collar and looped 
33i 


Silas Strong 

it over the breast of the helpless man and drew 
its ends under his arms and knotted them. 
Then, while Sinth supported her brother, the 
young man reached backward over his shoul- 
ders and, grasping the rope, lifted his friend so 
their backs were against each other, and, lean- 
ing under his burden, struggled on with it, the 
others following. 

It was a toilsome, painful journey to Harris's. 
But what is impossible when the strong heart 
of youth, warmed with dauntless courage, turns 
to its task? We that wonder as we look back- 
ward may venture to put the query, but dare 
not answer it. 

Often Master fell to his knees and there 
steadied himself a moment with heaving breast, 
then tightened his thews again and rose and 
measured the way with slow, staggering feet. 

An hour or so later a clear-voiced call rang 
through the noisy wind. They stopped and 
listened. 

“Somebody coming,” said Master. 

He answered with a loud halloo as they went 
on wearily. Soon they saw some one approach- 
ing in the dusky trail. 

“Who’s there?” the young man asked. 

“Edith Dunmore,” was the answer that trem- 
332 


Silas Strong 

bled with gladness. “ Oh, sir ! I would have gone 
through the fire.” 

‘‘I know,” said he, “you would have gone 
through the fire.” 

“For — for you,” she added, brokenly. 

Master dared not lay down his burden. He 
toiled on, his heart so full that he could not an- 
swer. The girl walked beside him for a moment 
of solemn, suggestive silence. She could dimly 
see the prostrate body of Strong on the back of 
her lover, and understood. What a singular 
and noble restraint was in that meeting! 

“ I love you — I love you, and I want to help 
you,” she said, as she walked beside him. 

“Help Miss Strong,” he answered. “She is 
badly burned.” 

Little Sue was overcome with weariness and 
fear, and could not be comforted. 

The maiden carried her with one arm and 
with the other supported Sinth. So, slowly, 
they made their way over the rough trail. 

“How came you here?” Master inquired, 
presently. 

“We saw the fire coming and hurried to 
Slender Lake, and fled in boats and came down 
the river.” 

When, late in the night, the little band of 
333 


Silas Strong 

lovers reeled across the dimlit clearing, it was 
in sore distress. Their feet dragged, their hearts 
and bodies stooped with heaviness. A company 
of woods -folk, who stood in front of Harris’s 
looking off at the fire, ran to meet them. They 
lifted the dragging Emperor and helped the 
young man carry him in-doors. Master was no 
sooner relieved of his burden than he fell ex- 
hausted on the floor. 

Edith Dunmore knelt by him and raised his 
hands to her lips. She helped him rise, and then 
for a moment they stood and trembled in each 
other’s arms, and were like unto the oak and the 
vine that clings to it. 

Dunmore and his mother stood looking at 
them. The white-haired man had taken the 
children in his arms. 

“ I thought she went to bed and to sleep long 
ago,” he muttered. 

“Without her we should have perished,” said 
the old lady. 

“Yes, and she shall have her way,” he an- 
swered. “One might as well try to keep the 
deer out of the lily-pads.” He kissed the boy 
and girl, and added, with a sigh, “This world is 
for the young.” 


XXXVI 


stood aghast for a moment 
the light of the lamps around 
5 bed of Strong. His clothes 
re burned, bloody, and torn — 
*y lay in rags upon him. His 
face and hands were swollen; part of his hair 
and beard had been shorn off in the storm of 
fire through which he had fought his way. He 
spoke not, but there was the grim record of his 
fight with the flames — of the terrible punish- 
ment they had put upon him while the sturdy 
old lover sought his friends. All hands made 
haste to do what they could for him and for the 
woman he had carried out of the fire of the pit. 

He had told Master that Annette was waiting 
for him at the Falls. The young man sent 
Harris to bring her with horse and buckboard. 

Strong lay like one dead while they gave him 
spirits and bathed his face and hands in oil. 
Soon he revived a little. 

“It’s Business/’ he muttered. 

335 



Silas Strong 

In a moment his thoughts began to wander 
in a curious delirium filled with suggestions of 
the old cheerfulness. He sang, feebly: 

“The briers are above my head, the brakes above 
my knee, 

An’ the bark is gettin’ kind o’ blue upon the ven ’son- 
tree.” 

Rain had begun falling and daylight was on 
the window-panes. 

The dethroned Emperor continued to sing 
fragments of old songs so familiar to all who 
knew him. 

“ It was in the summer-time when I sailed, when I 
sailed,” 

he sang. Socky stood by the bed of his uncle 
with a sad face. 

“ Th-thumbs down/’ Strong demanded, faintly. 
Master went out on the little veranda and 
looked down the road. He could hear the voice 
of his friend singing: 

“The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie.” 

“It is true,” thought the young man as he 
looked off at the smouldering woods. “They 
am gone and so are the green hearts.” 

336 


Silas Strong 

Annette came presently and Strong rose on 
his elbow and looked at her. 

“Ann,” he called, as she knelt by his bedside. 
“To-day — to -day I It’s n-no’ some day any 
m-more. It’s to-day.” 

He sank back on his pillow when he saw her 
tears, and whispered, almost doubtfully, “Bet- 
ter t-times!” 

He leaned forward and put up his hands as if 
to relieve the pressure of his pack-straps, and in 
a moment he had gone out of hearing on a trail 
that leads to the “better times” he had hoped 
for, let us try to believe. 

So ends the history of Silas Strong, guide, 
contriver, lover of the woods and streams, of 
honor and good-fellowship. He was never to 
bow his head before the dreaded tyrant of this 
world. We may be glad of that, and remember 
gratefully and with renewed thought of our own 
standing that Strong was ahead. 

A curious procession made its way out of the 
woods that morning. Socky and Sue walked 
ahead. Master and Edith and her father fol- 
lowed. Then came the boat- jumper with Sinth 
and all that remained of Silas Strong in it; 
then the buckboard that carried Harris and 
old Mrs. Dunmore and the servants. . Slow- 
337 


Silas Strong 

ly they made their way towards the sown 
land. 

“What ye cryin’ fer?” a stranger asked the 
children as he passed them. 

“Our Uncle Silas died,” was the all-sufficient 
reply of Socky. 

Soon they could hear the roar of the saws. 

“Look!” said Dunmore to his daughter, as 
they came in sight of the mill chimney. “ There’s 
the edge of the great world.” 

He looked thoughtfully at the children a mo- 
ment and added: 

“It all reminds me of the words of a mighty 
teacher, ‘A little child shall lead them.’” 

The once beautiful valley of Rainbow was 
turned into black ruins that night of the fire. 
Soon a “game pirate,” who had “blabbed” in a 
spree, was arrested for the crime of causing it. 
The authorities promised to let him go if he 
would tell the truth. He told how he had been 
with “Red” Macdonald that night and saw him 
fire the woods. They fled to the shore of Rain- 
bow and crossed in a boat. Near the middle of 
the lake they broke an oar, and a mile of green 
tops had begun to “fry” before they landed. 
They ran eastward in a panic. They crossed 
338 


Silas Strong 

Bushrod Creek on a big log that spanned the 
water. At the farther end of it Macdonald, 
who was in the lead, put his foot in one bear- 
trap and fell into another. His friend tried to 
release him, but soon had to give up and run 
for his life. 

He went with an officer and found the heap 
of bones that lay between two rusty traps in 
the desolate valley. 

“Wal,” said he, looking down at all that re- 
mained of the evil man, “it was him shot the 
‘Emp’ror o’ the Woods.’” 

Who was to pay Macdonald for his work? 
That probably will never be known. 

And what of Migley and the rest? Word of 
his harshness in driving Sinth and the children 
out of their home had travelled over the land, 
and not all the king’s money could have saved 
him. Master went to the Legislature — where 
God prosper him! — and the young lumberman 
was condemned to obscurity. 

Master and Edith live at Clear Lake most 
of the year, and the cranes have brought them 
a young fairy regarded by Socky and Sue, who 
often visit there, with deep interest and affec- 
tion. Sinth will spend the rest of her days, 
339 


Silas Strong 

probably, in the home of Gordon at Benson 
Falls. 

As to Annette, like many daughters of the 
Puritan, she lives with a memory, and her hope 
is still and all in that “ some day,” gone now into 
the land of faith and mystery. 


THE END 


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